


Dark Horses

by Bibliotecaria_D



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-04-23 05:38:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4865099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They made it this far, despite the competition.  A pity there can only be one winner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Dark Horses  
 **Warning:** A relationship extrapolation from what Robots In Disguise (the comic) showed of Swindle and Blurr. I blame Verit.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** IDW  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Blurr   
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** IDW gave us absolutely no closure on these two. I needed an outlet for what was left. Katy Perry or Switchfoot’s songs both work for this pairing.

**[* * * * *]**

It frankly wasn't fair how someone so lanky could be so fragging tall, wide, and _heavy_. Racers had all that long leg for good reason, but where did the bulk come from? Why did Blurr have to tower like a wall of blue next to him? It wasn’t fair. Swindle's altmode wasn't humongous, but it stood taller on four wheels than Blurr's. It was heavier and wider, too. _He_ should be the bigger one. That made sense, right?

Fragging size-shifting put reason in the back seat. When they transformed the size and weight advantage immediately heaved over to the blasted racer. The Autobot was faster, stronger, and Swindle ended up staring at his own reflection in Blurr's windshield every time. Fraggit.

"My optics are up here," Blurr sometimes joked.

"Money's down here," Swindle muttered back. He wasn't always talking about the shanix. The other ex-'Cons in the bar tended to be taller than Swindle, but their optics were drawn down to his level all the same. Wall of blue Blurr might be beside Swindle, but he was lanky, fast, and those legs went aaaaaaaaall the way up. Right up underneath Swindle's nose whenever Blurr forgot their height difference and turned around to get something from under the bar. Thighs for miles. Aft a mech could bounce shanix off of. Hip skirting tempting everyone in sight to slide their hands up underneath.

Swindle's optic-level got pretty crowded on busy nights. Everybody seated at the bar had a habit of ducking their heads, a row of bobbleheads moving in a wave down the bar as the racer-turned-bartender sped past. Swindle just slouched comfortably on his stool at the end of the bar, cheek supported by his fist and slag-eating grin in place. He had the best seat in the house. 80% of the time, Blurr was down at his end of the bar. It's where all the clean glassware was stored.

Looooooots of bending and lifting going on in lankytown. Shoulders thrown back for balance. Lifting with the legs. What a tall drink of engex, garnished by polished blue plating and speed speed speed. Mmm-mm, good scenery.

Still sucked that Swindle was short as frag around Blurr, but the view mollified him. Better yet, Swindle could sit on his barstool conducting business all night, and everybody bent down to his level unconsciously. Looming over him was a thing of the past. It was far more difficult attempting to intimidate him into a deal when half the time his customers snapped back into negotiations with their tongues dragging on the floor. Everybody and their frametype came over to where he sat to socialize, which was a plus. He didn’t have to go anywhere or do anything. People invented reasons to hang out at his end of the bar. The business came to him. 

Strange business, but business nonetheless. "Can I touch it?" one of the Tankors asked him once, as if he was the mystic gatekeeper of tapping that aft.

"Five shanix," Swindle said promptly.

Blurr stopped wagging his sweet little aft and emerged out from under the counter just enough that glowering optics peered over it at the merchant. Tankor swallowed hard and closed his hand around the five shanix he'd been about to fork over.

Swindle widened guileless purple optics at the bartender. "Okay, fifteen, but that's my last offer."

A multitude of high-performance vents huffed. The combined force was enough to rock Swindle's drink on the bartop. Both Tankors looked alarmed, ready to grab their glasses and retreat, but Blurr merely shut his vents in resignation to the free market. He shrugged with his optic ridges and dug back into the clean dishware. 

Quite a few discreet bargains were struck that night. Privileged fingers reached over the counter to feel for their owners what that aerodynamic aft felt like. Some dipped their hands under the skirting for a chance at shiny, professionally-maintained ball-jointed hips, fingertips skating over their oil-slick, speed-sleek surfaces. Some just reached out to stroke the skirting itself. Blurr dislocated a significant number of fingers that grew too daring. Broken fingers were subsequently cradled against satisfied customers' chests. 

Since Blurr got 55% of the deals and nobody died, Swindle considered it a profitable enterprise all around. Everyone enjoyed themselves, some more than others.

Blurr didn't _really_ mind being touched. Swindle didn't _really_ mind looking up. 

Because after the bar closed, after Blurr raced circles around Swindle's larger altmode, after they arrived at the rundown building they shared, Blurr swept him up as they transformed to go inside. The taller mech carried him slung sidelong in his arms, endless legs taking the stairs three at a time as he pressed their forehelms together. Swindle smiled his broad, eager business smile, the smile of greed igniting at the sight of a luscious payday, and he ran the back of his fingers down the big mech’s cheek. The impossibly white spread of his teeth making his optics wider and somehow more purple, glowing with the excited sparkle of getting everything for nothing, and Swindle leaned his forehelm into Blurr’s. 

Blue optics stared into gleaming purple, and Blurr lost himself in staring into those vast violet windows. Rubber scuffed as he fumbled to kick the door shut behind them, unwilling to put Swindle down or look away even for a moment. It stuck. Mumbled curses puffed against Swindle’s lips as more kicking commenced.

The second Swindle felt Blurr’s frustration peak, he slid one arm along the racer's shoulders, behind his neck but in front of the huge propulsion fans, and Blurr forgot about the door. It was more important to follow the hand cupping his jaw, turning him toward the small ex-weapons dealer taking up illegal residence in his arms.

"I'm going need to see a permit for selling aft in my bar," Blurr murmured between soft-mouthed kisses, their mouths sliding in lengthy, languorous contact over one another as if separation were a foreign concept. Pulling away to speak clearly would be too far. The air they drew it would be too cold if it weren't pushed out by one mech's vents and immediately pulled in by the other's. If Blurr weren't pressing into him, then Swindle would have to use the arm wrapped around his neck to keep him in place. As it was, neither knew who was holding whom into the embrace. It became a lazy capture, captor and captive entwined in bonds of arms and lips, keys and locks one and the same.

Swindle leaned his head against Blurr's shoulder and smiled, oddly narrow compared to his business expressions. "Unlawful detainment. I should call my lawyer." Blurr hummed an inquiry as the exposed neck was investigated for suspected criminal activity. Swindle's big optics squinched up in the centers, and his fingers curled against the back of the racer's helm. "Although I could...cooperate. For more favorable terms."

Swindle had more experience than he let on about convincing stern authority figures to look the other direction. Ultra Magnus had been more difficult to sway. Prowl had been rougher. Thunderclash...well, Swindle had sold the book rights for that one, 75/25 split. That legendary reputation was partially self-made, after all, and good ghostwriters were hard to find. Even harder to molest. Downright abysmal chances of wheedling free without conceding how the climactic ending came about.

All in all, Swindle was in favor of recreational frisking as opposed to the real deal. Especially when a sharp nip broke a gasp from him.

Blurr stopped. His lips moved against the dented cable. "Too hard?"

"Not into corporal punishment," Swindle said. Bending his head from side to side, he tried to stretch out the pain. It dulled down to an ache, but that was enough to bring him out of the warm haze of growing pleasure. "Ow."

"Sorry." Lips parted over the bitemark, and Blurr laved the rough spot with his tongue. Chemical receptors caught on the indents. 

Swindle shuddered, arms suddenly tighter to push Blurr's face into his neck, and the racer burrowed closer, mouth closing gently over the mark he'd unintentionally left. This was a far better deal than anything under-the-table from an official source. Swindle’s optics dimmed to smoky violent. He tipped his head back to open up more space for whatever Blurr wanted to do to him.

For a few minutes, the only sounds to be heard were the soft, wet smack of Blurr lavishing attention on that exposed neck. He moved from sucking on the bitemark to nibbling gently, ever-so-gently down the main conduit line. Back and forth, up and down, nuzzling between tubes and cables to single them out one by one. Pleasure spangled down his wires at the clouded moisture exhaled over sensitized circuits. It wasn’t just the lick of Blurr’s tongue catching on edges. It was the sheer care taken to find those edges and trace along them, gentler than a conmech could rightfully expect from anyone, much less an Autobot. An ex-Autobot, a former Wrecker, a racer and a bartender holding him like glass, touching him as if he’d break under less care.

Swindle's fans whirred quietly, although his breathing hitched noticeably as Blurr's mouth began to travel down across his collar armor, the utilitarian lines of his altmode's hood, seeking his headlights. A low moan broke his composure when Blurr found _those_. Lips wrapped around the rims, sliding along the curves. Blue optics looked up at him as he arched in strong arms, and lust burnt those optics a dark, intense indigo. He could feel the desire in them as a heavy weight behind a stroking hand.

"Better?"

"Weeeeeell, I could stand to have you make it up to me a bit more..." 

The bargaining tone made Blurr grin, lips sliding up to whisper against taut neck linkages, "I was thinking of reparation."

Swindle pulled his arm loose and pushed at Blurr's headfin until the mech looked him in the face. Terms and conditions were his kind of language, the sort of intimacy that required brushing the tips of their noses together as he gazed deep into Blurr’s optics. "Are we talking property damage or bruised feelings?"

Blurr’s optics lightened with mischief. He broke optic contact to nuzzle under his chin and kiss along his jaw. "More along the lines of disciplinary action."

"Oh." The fingers absently stroking Blurr's headfin stilled. The small print on this one revved his engine. " **Ohhh.** Wrecker in restraints?"

"For your safety." Blurr stopped licking down his neck in order to jerk his head meaningfully toward the neglected bed. "Handcuffs, at the very least."

"Blindfold. Because, y'know," Swindle bumped their forehelms together, grinning wildly as his optics glittered, "justice is blind."

Blurr chewed his bottom lip for a moment, searching those too-innocent purple optics. They were so wide and earnest on the sparkling surface, but their murky depths were full of sly plans. Merchant, weapons dealer, ex-Decepticon, and conmech to the core, but curled close and purring in a pretty package of dangerous history and current good intentions. It was worth the risk of admitting, "I kind of want to try leg restraints."

Swindle stared blankly at him. Shock wiped the playful smirk off his whole face, leaving his optics huge and hyper-expressive mouth slack. The immense amount of trust implied in the racer-turned-bartender even _saying_ that floored him. Blurr was nothing without his speed. If he couldn't run, who was he?

Word were difficult to find. Swindle chose them as cautiously as a scout venturing into a minefield. "Do you mean a spreader bar?"

Blurr's vents huffed. "I...no. Nothing hard."

Loud as Blurr's vents were, Swindle's fans spun louder. He built pictures in his mind, striking out the cuffs, chains, and spreader bars. "Tie you spread-eagled to the bed, maybe." A good image. All the height Blurr had would be for naught if he was flat on his back.

Blurr swallowed a mouthful of unease. "I had an idea, uh. Like when they used to load us into the transports to drive us away after the races, we weren't always," the hand under Swindle's knees gestured vaguely, "all there. Our heads weren’t off the race track yet. We were usually in pain, too, and getting us prepped for post-race repairs meant the track medics had to treat us without pain patches." Swindle cocked his head quizzically, and Blurr gave him an awkward smile. "Sometimes the pain startled us. Running a race inside a transport van doesn't really work, but once one racer's off the block, we all sprint after. It's code-level instinct."

"So." Another vague gesture, this time down at his feet. "They'd hobble us."

"Hobbles," Swindle repeated, skeptical.

"Hobbles. Soft ones. Just to tether our legs and keep us from taking a full stride." Blurr shifted on his feet as if he could feel them now. "It felt restrictive, but it wasn't -- " Scary, he didn't say. Frightening. It didn't feel like he'd be trapped in a bodily prison of crippled legs, which for him was the ultimate fear, the worst torture. Soft hobbles wound through his wheels had enough give to calm the worst of the panic, but they wouldn’t let him run.

Swindle waited a moment, but it was clear Blurr wouldn't finish the sentence. All the things left unsaid were blatantly obvious to anyone who could peel back a layer of Blurr's confidence, however, and he studied the racer closely. They could do this, but the question was whether or not they _should_.

It was a trust he wasn't sure he deserved, and a closeness as frightening to him as losing speed was to Blurr. Once someone slipped too close, inserted themselves into his core, there was the risk that he wouldn't be able to detach again. Letting Blurr trust him felt as though the trust would turn mutual. Reciprocation hadn't been in any of his plans. He'd been compromising for so long he hadn't seen the corner until he was backed into it.

Blurr's arms tightened, pressing Swindle in to his chest, and the racer dipped to claim another kiss. The soft, breathing cycle of unbroken touch and little skipped, hitching noises started once more, but conflict swam in the back of brilliant purple optics. They dimmed to black, hiding a business mech’s uncertainty. He wondered with a hint of desperation when this had become something he couldn’t quantify in professional terms. They bought each other’s bodies through lust and desire, the measurable rise and fall of shared charge. He couldn’t measure emotions. He couldn’t barter for equal give and take, and without things to add or subtract, what were they bargaining over? 

The money was down on Swindle's level. That's where he made it. That's where he belonged.

But Blurr carried him here, swept up to a higher standard, and Swindle was suddenly afraid of how far he'd fall.

**[* * * * *]**


	2. Pt. 2

**[* * * * *]**

He needed a starting point. Every auctioneer had a baseline they began from. No point in wasting time in the double digits when the piece in his hands was worth triples, probably more. It was an insult to offer a low bid. It devalued the piece, whatever the final price.

The whole deal reminded him of handling art. True art, the real expensive stuff displayed in museums, not the up-and-coming artistic endeavors put in galleries in hopes the grubby common mech would purchase something. The sort of art that had a price tag but was actually priceless. That kind of art. This was a one-of-a-kind art that had to be experienced as much as viewed. It was famous, but fragile in the peculiar way art often was. Touch it right, and it’d sing to the senses. Handle it wrong, and its value plummeted until it couldn’t even be _given_ away.

Swindle stood back from the bed and looked for the best place to begin. There were some spots he shouldn't touch, not yet. The helm fin, for one. Blurr was far too sensitive there, too prone to start purring and revving back up if Swindle touched him there now. It was the fragile thin connection of a sculpture, prone to snapping if he took advantage of it. In his mind, the helm fin was marked as Do Not Touch. It was a handhold, one he’d reach for if he wanted to break the pretty mech splayed on the bed, but not one for today. They had an agreement, and if he bent the rules, the dropped trust would shatter.

The vents were uncertain. Sometimes Blurr would writhe if he stroked them, helplessly balanced on the razor edge of pleasure and pain where the final overload had suspended him. However, sometimes they would settle closed the longer Swindle paid attention to clearing them, cleaning between the slats with a rag wrapped around one finger, leaning close to puff air at the dust out on the fans inside. Blurr cycled a massive amount of air. Duct cleaning was fairly standard maintenance for him, yet like this? Swindle frowned and considered it as he would picking up a heavy painting by the corners. He had no way to know know if they'd support weight until the moment they gave way.

He was confident he could catch anything that fell, but he hadn't become the trader he was without learning when and where to gamble. Risking the frail trust between them was a bad bet.

Well. He’d handled all kinds of art in his time. He could find where this piece was safe to hold.

Blurr murmured into the bed, shoulders easing down. The tension of released charge was finally ebbing, shuddering cables relaxing in tiny increments as painfully sensitized systems wound down. The last overload had flung him taut, expression almost agonized as he’d choked on a scream. Now he whispered long sighing words that made no sense. Nonsense noise, sound for the sake of making it. Swindle doubted even he knew what he was saying. It sounded like dream-noise, leftover syllables dredged from a deep defragment.

"Shhh," Swindle replied on automatic. He didn't even think about it. He'd been saying various shushing sounds since Blurr tipped over the edge. It took him about half a minute to recover from overload, personally. The afterglow disappeared into a pleasant, tired haze that lasted a bit, but that was the extent of what a good interface gave Swindle. 

Blurr took half an hour at best after a tumble like tonight, hard and building one overload after another until his joints creaked and his voice broke into static. Swindle had drawn the last one from him while sitting on those powerful hips, thighs clamped over the skirting while Blurr bucked in frantic, climbing need to climax that bordered on desperation to escape the oncoming crash into overload. His kicking would have unseated Swindle if not for the hobbles keeping his feet tied even now.

Taking things this far made the aftermath more difficult, but Swindle thought it a decent price. He couldn’t _buy_ a frag like that. He definitely couldn’t dig up the money for the silence afterward when Blurr fell offline, leaving trust precious and infinitely beautiful in his hands. 

That's what made this art.

Ah, there. He had his starting point as the sleepy racer-turned-bartender turned over, slow and languid as he never was fully awake. Sleek blue limbs stretched outward to take up the entire bed. Swindle had turned down the lights, mindful of Blurr’s over-sensitized everything, and it gleamed over him in waves where the day's dust had been disturbed by the sudden pulse of overload. Static still crackled in his joints, rearranging the patterns in the dirt. Miniscule particles of metal, dried coolant, and powdered paint wavered from the energy of Blurr's expanded electromagnetic field. The waves made an erotic pattern spelling out his completion. 

Art. Swindle admired the intensely personal design for a moment, saving an image capture to his files. The stylized waves would collapse back into random grubby smudges soon, but for now, it was all his. If he did this right, it would subside gently into everyday dirt instead of spiking from the disruption of poor aftercare.

"Shhh," Swindle said. "Just walking over here. I'm right here." Blurr's disoriented, disappointed _'wuh?'_ subsided. The tired mech kept his optics offline, following the sound of Swindle's voice by turning his head, comforted by the warm presence speaking soothing words in the dark. Swindle didn’t put much thought into what he was saying as he picked up the supplies from where he'd tucked them behind the bedstand. It was the tone that mattered at this point. Blurr didn’t have the processing speed to understand what he was saying, yet.

Blurr's engine thrummed heavily when Swindle returned to his side. This time, the merchant sat at his side, close enough to feel the warm pulse of electromagnetic energy but not close enough to provoke a defensive reaction. Blurr murmured in response, and wavelets fluttered through the dust patterns on his armor. 

Swindle traced them with his optics but didn’t touch. "You ready?" Another murmur. "Blu~urr,” he crooned, “come back here. Come on. Wake up. Back to the real world with you." A split second of blue light winked from one optic. Swindle bent closer to study Blurr’s lax face, looking for a hint of awareness.

Blurr hummed something. It might have been acknowledgement.

Fingertips trailed over glass, daring the lightest of touches. "You can't hear me yet, can you?" Swindle shook his head at the lack of response and sat up to spritz glass cleaner on a rag. Cool liquid sprayed directly on glass would be too much of a shock. It’d probably throw Blurr into a panic. Wrapping the rag around one finger, he drew it gently down the center of Blurr's windshield, barely letting it skim the glass. 

Blurr inhaled sharply, and metal creaked as the lanky blue racer arched to meet the soft petting. Swindle paused, watching him closely, ready to stop if he’d pushed too fast or too far. Things could snap so easily right now.

Hobbled wheels tried to spin and ended up skidding across the bed. Kicking feet tug helplessly against the loop of rubber holding them tethered together. Blurr tossed his head to one side, chest pushing up and hands curling into fists. Swindle blinked at the shuddering tension and lifted the rag away immediately. 

A very low sound, softer than a moan, and he reached his free hand out to brush the back of his forefinger against the glass. Optics still offline, Blurr subsided a bit. Knees bent, and the tips of his feet came to rest on the bed. The hobble stretched but held.

"Good thing I didn't take that off. You really do run when startled, don't you." Swindle shook the rag loose from his other hand to drape over his lap. Spritzing the rag one-handed was awkward, but it left his other hand to settle flat on the glass, scraping over the smooth surface at a glacial pace until his palm finally came to rest against it. He waited a moment, then pushed down just slightly. 

Blurr’s back curved down under the pressure, but his shoulders worked restlessly into the bed as he tried to ask for something he couldn't even articulate yet. The warm palm on his windshield slid down his chest, left briefly, and came down at the top to stroke downward again. Down, and up. Down, and as Swindle's hand abandoned him this time, the cooler scratch of the rag started from the top. It cleaned a swathe down his windshield. As it left him, Swindle's palm began its downward path. Again, and again, hand and rag petting and cleaning him in a rhythm.

The constant contact started light but grew heavier, easing the itchy restlessness. It coaxed the racer back toward consciousness, urging systems to reset one by one back to normal parameters. 

After a while, the rag ventured off his windshield to wipe down the rest of his chest. On automatic, in a breathtaking moment of trust, Blurr lifted his chin, helm rolling to the side as Swindle moved to slip the rag in among the vulnerable cables and tubes in his neck. Swindle paused, but only for a single beat of the old, familiar tune he’d started to hum. He resumed almost before he stopped, turning it into a hitch in the jingle, merry and bright. He didn't have the voice for singing, but he had the chest for reverb. The song thrummed as low as any bass as he hummed, and Blurr's vents gradually cycled in time.

"We should go over your business ledgers while I've got you at my mercy," Swindle said as he worked down to wipe long thighs clean. Vents huffed at him, blowing still-warm air into his face. The erotic wavelengths on blue plating shimmered, blown out of pattern as fading charge lost its hold on the dust. "You need to start charging more for the fancy drinks, y'know. They take too much labor for so few shanix."

Blurr mumbled something more coherent than before and twitched a hand. It was supposed to be a dismissal. Swindle took it as an invitation.

Shifting about on the bed, he hiked up a leg to prop his heel against Blurr’s side. It let him balance the mech's arm up the length of his shin, hand resting on his knee. "You'll run that place into the ground, see if you don't," he chided as he switched bottles. Time for armor polish.

Blurr flicked a rude finger at him. Swindle grinned and caught it. "Now now, I'm only trying to help." A dab of polish, and he began to work it into roughened plating one digit at a time. Blurr still thought of himself as a racer, but his hands were those of a bartender. Swindle's rag picked up pink and vivid blue from engex ingrained in the knuckle joints, and the friction pads on Blurr's fingers had been changed to minimize glass slippage. 

He should have soaked Blurr’s hands before polishing them. It amazed him how much filth a mech who washed his hands six dozen times per night could acquire between his fingers. Swindle shook out his rag and grimaced at the mess. "Hmm. I need to get something."

Optics offline, Blurr frowned. It looked like a pout. "No."

"It's right over there. Look, you can see it." Swindle prodded him with his foot, trying to make him look over at the basin.

Fingers curled on his knee, getting a grip. "No."

"Alright, alright..." It'd be easier to clean Blurr’s hands with a basin and some solvent, but it wasn't worth upsetting the mech. He’d just have to use the rag. 

Blurr took a long time to recover. Swindle wasn't about to knock him out of his blissful quiet before he was ready. Getting two words out of him this soon was a rarity. Swindle eyed the prone mech, thinking over his options. The vents might be good odds by now.

Testing his theory, he pet Blurr's windshield again, then let his hand drop further to rub back and forth over the lower edge. The unhappy lines on Blurr's face smoothed the longer he toyed with the frame. Once they'd disappeared into the contented expression of a well-fragged mech, Swindle's fingers walked down to pet the rows of open vents on Blurr's belly.

They quivered.

For a second, he thought he'd misjudged. Swindle stopped, freezing on the edge of everything crashing down. 

The quivering became a rattling shake as cringing expectation of pain became relief. Oversensitive systems had calmed. The vents flexed, small fluttering motions of adjustment. Parts searched for more contact, tapping against motionless fingertips like an eager cyberhound butting into someone’s palm. Watching Blurr's face closely, Swindle slowly laid his hand flat on the vents. Just as slowly, they eased closed, until he could run his hand down the sleeked-down shutters in long strokes.

Blurr tensed, fans stuttering, but just for a second. Only a second, and the air pushed out in a long, easy exhale. When he inhaled afterward, it was a strangely satisfied sound. The tension melted out of him with the breath. His whole body went slack.

Swindle flashed his sales smile, the smile that won customers. It was useless with Blurr's optics off, but oh well. Some deals needed the special touch, complete with smile. Success!

"Here, move your speedy aft over. Not fair, you being this tall." Grumbling good-naturedly, he tugged on Blurr's arm, sliding off the bed for a bare moment in order to edge in behind the racer. Blurr's frown didn't even have time to form before Swindle pulled him back into his lap. "There. Better?"

"Mmm." Blue plating squirmed, thoroughly smudged. Blurr turned onto his side enough to nuzzle into Swindle's wheelwell, and his far arm snaked over the merchant's middle. 

"You're making it harder to clean up." Despite the complaint, his own arm settled across Blurr's broad shoulders to pull him closer. 

Blurr slurred something that might have been, "Don't care."

" **I** do. Resale value's very important, especially considering the market lately. Not much left out there in good condition." His voice held all the confidence of an auctioneer, saying exactly what he meant to say at the cadence his audience wanted to hear. 

He idly pet the helm burrowing into his side. His hand avoided touching the helm fin. They were gentle. Tender. An art dealer's hands, holding a masterpiece. 

He'd get a good price when it came time to sell.

**[* * * * *]**


	3. Pt. 3

**[* * * * *]**

Shadows stretched across the floor, creeping in through the open door to darken already dim afterhour lighting in Maccadam’s. Night covered the puddles of spilled drinks left behind by the last customers shooed out onto the streets. Those who’d stayed to last call were out there now, still finding their drunken, lonely ways home. They staggered under neon lights turning off one by one as the city fell silent and dark at long last, the hawkers stopping their persuasive calls, the bright signs turning off, the nighttime businesses closing their doors. Quiet darkness finally settling over the city in the hour before dawn.

At this hour, even the blackest sparks took a rest. The shady deals, whispered promises, and knife-ended alliances had done their worst through the night. The balance of politics and business show any changes made, but that would come when the sun rose. That’s when the bargaining cycle of politics, trade, and survival restarted.

For now, Iacon waited. 

Blurr kept cleaning glasses. It was a mechanical process of taking a glass in one hand, wiping out the inside with a quick in-and-twist of the rag held in the other, pinching the rim with that same rag while deftly spinning the glass, and setting the cleaned glass in the rack. He'd run the whole stack through the sterilizer later, but a once-over with a rag spared his machine the labor.

It was a familiar ritual even for a new bartender. He fell back on its comfortable rhythm once everyone went home and he had nothing else to do. It was just him, the bar, and the last full glass in the house. Anyone glancing in Maccadam’s door would see a weary bartender staying open for a final customer. It was a waiting game. Once the customer left, he’d wipe the counter, clean the dirty glass, and lock the door on his way out. 

The customer at the far end of the bar didn’t hurry. The glass Blurr had set on the counter for him was full, liquid glowing to the brim despite being his favorite blend of engex. He hadn’t asked for it. He didn’t even have the money to pay for it. That wouldn’t have been enough to stop him from ordering, depending on his charm to make shanix appear, but Blurr had circled his palm over the drink as it was set down. On the house, that gesture said, and the bartender turned away once he set it down.

There it’d sat. Metal scraped gentle on glass as the lingering customer just barely touched it with his fingertips. He looked at it like it was a spun-glass dream instead of a free drink offered to him without price or comment.

Eventually, however, he broke the silence. "Must be nice to win."

The frames around Blurr's optics tightened. He didn't otherwise react to the mocking tone. "It is. I'm a winner. It's what I do."

Swindle laughed out loud, shoving off the bar with his elbows in order to wave in wild remembrance of the celebration party, and for a second, the cold, dark hour before dawn brightened. “So generous to the losers! I, for one,” he brought his hands in to press against his chest, bowing slightly, “am grateful to the victor of the Velocitron raceways. You grace us with your illustrious presence and, apparently, bartending skills. How’s that working out for you?” He put his elbows back on the counter and laced his fingers together, chin set on the backs of his hands. Blurr glanced at him, optics narrowed in annoyance at the carefree attitude, and Swindle tipped his head to the side with a wane smile. 

Blurr couldn’t help but snort. “Shut your face. It worked out fine, and you know it. I held up my name in racing on a world dedicated to racing, and everybody knows I’m the fastest ‘bot out there -- **still**.” He straightened, shoulders going back as he, well, he couldn’t help it. He preened. “Moonracer’s as much as told Windblade I’m the only reason there’ll be any sort of diplomatic venture between Cybertron and Velocitron from here on out. Not a bad way to keep my feet in racing, eh?” His optics dropped to the glass in his hand, and suddenly he bent back to wiping it industriously. “Might go back a time or two, but like I told everyone, this is my bar. I’m not going to abandon it.”

Not after everything he’d done to keep it. Him and his customers, no matter what color insignia they had or hadn’t worn at the time.

Swindle hadn’t been here for the fight for the bar, but he’d been here nonetheless. He’d been here for the aftermath. He’d been here for everything, after that, and then he’d left.

He’d _left_. 

Blurr wasn’t standing at the opposite end of the bar just because that’s where the dirty glass rack was. He’d poured Swindle a glass of engex. That didn’t mean he forgiven the coghead yet. It’d be a while before the space between them stopped feeling like fingers in an open wound. 

A heavy silence fell. The drink glowed, untouched. Swindle stared down into its depths, and slowly, the night outside invaded Maccadam’s. The shadows muffled everything, turning the tables and chairs to vague shapes in the dark. Even in the desert heat of Cybertron, this hour felt cold. Maybe it was a trick of the light, a mindfrag brought on by the distance between them, but it felt real enough. The seeping chill ate at them until the two mechs at the counter huddled in the remaining light as through it kept them warm. It was unsettling. It was a symptom of a good thing gone wrong, and what hung in the air kept them to separate ends of the bar.

"Funny how things work out, isn't it?" Swindle asked after all the glasses had been wiped and racked, and Blurr had nothing to do but turn toward him. He said it almost idly, a dispassionate observer making a note of what he saw. 

It was a strange tone from him, nothing like his usual laughing tone. Networking was his primary social activity. He could be missing limbs and still smile his practiced, easy smile at a mech aiming a gun at his head. He had a careful front, one meant to invite others into his confidence, make a shanix, and schmooze potential clients. Anyone was a potential client, making the universe his customer, and thus the mask didn’t come off. It wouldn’t slip unless it was the end of the world, and even then he’d probably try to shake the Unmaker’s hand. Whatever traits of his personality showed through in private, they rarely got through his professional mask. 

Everyone knew Swindle. _That_ Swindle, the greedy conmech Swindle, and that was all he was. Nobody knew what else Swindle could be.

Blurr screwed the rag taut in his hands. He knew. He thought he knew.

He'd _thought_ he knew.

But the distant tone echoing in Swindle's voice sounded completely unfamiliar. It threw Blurr for a loop. His tanks lurched, tossing themselves against his internals as if the parts of him deeper than conscious control wanted to reach out to the ex-Decepticon sitting at the far end of the bar. Decepticon. Ex-'Con, like Blurr was an ex-Autobot, but the war hadn’t ended yet no matter what the politicians said, not on the street level down in the Decepticon ghetto or out in front of Maccadam’s where drunk mechs without faction emblems took their faction-divided fights once he kicked them out. 

Everyone’s true faction showed through when they came down to the finish line. That's when rivalries were remembered, and no matter what this city tried for, competition to win overwhelmed everything else. The war wasn’t over, or perhaps it was restarting. Blurr didn’t know. He wanted to reach for Swindle’s restless hands, hold them over the counter how he used to during other conversations, but the time for that had sped past. Peace was left chasing their heels, falling behind, and whatever race they were in was in its final stretch. 

Blurr could feel it in the conflicted excitement pull at the base of his tanks, an odd sadness mixed into determination. Something was finishing here, tonight, and they were speeding toward it. Blurr had never been able to slow down, much less turn back in the final sprint. That would be like asking Swindle to stop wheeling and dealing. No, they were in this together, the two of them, and they could only go forward to see it through.

"Yeah, funny,” Swindle repeated softly. “Funny in a not ha-ha way." He sighed and ran the tip of his forefinger around the rim of the glass in front of him. "Bigshot government authority figure comes up to you, says _'You can help me save a diplomatic hash,'_ and you know you’re being played. You know they’re using you, but oh, do you want it. It’s your big chance, right? A little normal amidst all,” optics down, locked on the drink, he flapped his other hand dismissively at the universe in general, “this. Nothing **wrong** about the brave new world, but they’re saying all the right words. Feels weird, but it feels **right** , and they're dangling the one thing they know you can't resist in front of you." 

The words stirred memory, bringing Windblade’s earnest expression to Blurr’s mind, and an aching longing tugged at his axles just remembering. He’d lived for it once upon a racing career: the cheering, the adulation, the crowd on their feet as he swept past, but first and most important, the _speed_. War had given him the chance to run for his life, but a race, a true _race_. Velocitron had been an opportunity he couldn’t resist, and everything Swindle said was as true for him as it was self-directed.

Swindle let his hands fall flat on the counter. Lifting his head, he looked at Blurr with optics holding something of pain, something of regret, but still defensive. He’d lost, but what hurt was that he’d thought the whole way he could _win._ "I knew it was stupid, but I just couldn't stop myself. Now it’s too late, isn’t it?” He looked down again, and if he faded a bit into the shadows at his back, then it was a trick of the cold night air breathing wind through the bar. Blurr set his jaw, shivering, but Swindle only cupped his hands around the growing drink like it would warm him. “Too late.”

He laughed suddenly, an out-of-nowhere bark as bitter cold as the wind. “Guess you only get to win if someone else cheats for you.” Reflected glow from the engex glittered in those big purple optics as they turned on Blurr in challenge, and Swindle’s smile sliced bright white through the darkness he sat in. “You know they cheated. Your big victory, and you don’t even **deserve** it. Did you tell your admirers that tonight, hmm? Did you tell them you wouldn’t have won in a fair race? Or is being in the winner’s circle all that matters once you’re over the finish line?”

“There’s no proof,” Blurr said through his teeth, clenching his jaw to keep them from chattering. And if he sounded angry, good. “I won the race.” He’d won the race and Swindle…Swindle had lost.

Only one winner per race, political or on foot. Everybody knew the rules. One person won, and everyone else lost. 

“Oh, yes, **so** rry.” Sitting up straight, Swindle place a pious hand on his chest in testament of clear conscience. “Your hands are clean, therefore you are innocent and the uncontested fastest of the fast on Velocitron. **Do** forgive me. Sour grapes, you know.” He snorted and slumped back down, elbows on the counter and optics downcast. “Not easy being the loser caught cheating when your scam got away scot-free, but hey.” A twisted smile flashed at the racer, pain in purple optics. “All hail the underhanded winner.”

At some point in Swindle’s needling, Blurr had advanced halfway down the bar. He stopped himself and backed away, one step at a time, until he could put his hands back to clamp onto the counter edge. It was solid in his hands. It anchored him. ”Starscream covered his tracks. He set you up, we all know it, but nobody can find any proof. The whole thing smells like Rattrap, and he’s as slippery as he is slimy. All I can get from Windblade is -- “ He faltered.

“Is that I acted on my own, for the profit” Swindle finished for him, unsurprised. He didn’t even look up. “You know me. Glue a shanix to Astrotrain’s aft, and you’ll find me in orbit somehow, prying it off while he sleeps.” He steepled his fingers over the drink, watching the glow of the engex light his hands from underneath. “So that’s it. That’s how it’s going to be. You cheat and win. I cheat and lose.”

Blur tightened his grip on the bar. His joints hurt faintly from the cold, hurt more from staying tensed to stop the shivering. Dawn wasn’t even a gentle hint outside the city yet, and its absence made the darkness pitch black. Concentrated night filled the streets, a smothering dark nibbling at the solitary light over Blurr’s head. Except for that weak bulb, night had taken over Maccadam’s. He felt besieged by it, like it threatened to consume him, and Swindle sat nearly swallowed in the shadows on the other end of the bar, close by but so far away. The distance seemed impossible to bridge.

It wasn’t fair to the losers, but it never had been. That’s how racing worked. One person won, no matter how that victory came about. Sometimes the cheaters won, for the good of all, or perhaps that’s just what they told themselves to sleep at night.

Blurr was wide awake. Painfully awake. He should have been back to his home by now, up the stairs and tucked away safe in recharge, not trapped here his bar in the hour before dawn, still hoping for answers to questions he’d sworn he wouldn’t ask. Sworn to himself, on his pride, but what was pride? Right now, it seemed unimportant.

So he found himself asking in an anguished whisper, knowing better, “Why?”

Swindle shook his head. “You know why. He made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” 

From across all the distance between them, from opposite ends of the bar and beyond a finish line he couldn’t cross, he offered that confident, familiar smile to the winner, conceding the race. A little sadness filtered around the edges where whom he really was broke through the professional mask, but it was a smile nonetheless. 

When he stood up, his hand cradled the full glass of engex in true regret. He understood the value of a free drink from a friend. It meant more than even that, and he left the glass on the counter while carrying all those things with him in the palm of his hand. “Thanks for this,” he said quietly, in that dispassionate, empty voice Blurr didn’t recognize. It was a hollow tone as close to neutral as he could manage, and it still echoed of things unsaid. 

Business waited for no one, however, and there was an appointment he had to keep. One might say he was running late.

Blurr swallowed, mouth opening to say he didn’t know what, but Swindle met his optics. Whatever he saw in those big purple optics shut his mouth. He bit the inside of his lips until they pressed together hard enough to dent, and Swindle reluctantly stepped back from the counter.

“I’m expecting you back here tomorrow night,” Blurr said abruptly.

Swindle paused, half turned away and lost in the pre-dawn dark. “I don’t have a shanix to spare,” he said, light as though it was his only care.

“It’s free. Drink’s on the house.” He took a deep breath, vent fins shuddering as cold air met stress-heated internals. He was cold, deathly cold, but he made his voice project warmth, made it inviting. An invitation. A _bargain_. “Tell me that’s not a steal.”

Shadowed optics dim against the darkness lit a touch brighter. “It is, it is.” 

Swindle hesitated. Blurr couldn’t make him out anymore, a trick of the night making his silhouette disappear dark against dark. All he could see were smoky violet optics that wouldn’t look directly at him, evasive as ever, and he was suddenly reminded that Swindle always lied, always. But his peculiar brand of dishonesty became honesty if knotted in on itself enough. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” came out of the darkness, soft as a promise that wasn’t.

He didn’t know how he knew, but between one vent and the next, Blurr knew the canny little ex-‘Con was gone. The purple smudges he’d thought were optics were merely afterimages from tired optical fibers strained by a long night working under inadequate lighting in the dark. He blinked, and they faded away.

Outside, furnace-hot air held motionless in anticipation, the last minutes of night waiting for morning to break. The bar was oppressively hot suddenly, dry and still, and dawn would bake the city. He needed to lock up the bar and get home before he lost the flimsy illusion of cool night shadows. 

The last glass stood by itself at the end of the bar, as full and sparkling as when he’d put it down. Blurr pretended his hand didn’t tremble as he picked it up. The engex swirled inside it. The blend wasn’t his favorite, but it was someone’s, and he tried to smile as he looked down into the blend. “You’re welcome,” he said, belated but sincere.

He knocked it back in one long swallow. His face creased in a grimace as he forced it down, because the dead didn’t drink and he was alive. 

He was alive.

**[* * * * *]**


	4. Pt. 4

**Title:** Dark Horses  
**Warning:** A relationship extrapolation from what Robots In Disguise (the comic) showed of Swindle and Blurr.  
**Rating:** PG  
**Continuity:** IDW  
**Characters:** Swindle, Blurr  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** Continuation for the delightful FlyFloyd. Thank you!

 **[* * * * *]**  
Part 4: Wherein Blurr sees only what he expects to.  
**[* * * * *]**

 

Swindle stood on the corner waiting for him.

Blurr slowed as he made the turn, but he didn’t stop. The ghost had become too much of his life in the past two weeks to be surprised. Haunting his home instead of his bar was a new twist in his aching spark, but he guessed he should have expected it. They’d started whatever it was between them in the bar, but they’d taken it elsewhere after hours. 

It seemed inevitable Swindle would come home.

The lightpole the ghost waited under stood down the street from the run-down building they’d once shared. Although looking back on it in the aftermath, that description wasn’t accurate. There was nothing of Swindle in the place. Blurr had shared his home with Swindle, opening his apartment and bed to the merchant, but Swindle hadn’t moved anything in. He hadn’t shared anything with Blurr. Nothing tangible, anyway. Nothing Blurr could keep. 

The racer-turned-bartender had stood in the middle of his apartment and been at a loss. It’d taken Swindle’s death to make him realize the only thing he had to remember the mech by were memories. Swindle had never brought anything to the apartment, had never slotted bits of his life in among Blurr’s belongings, joined him in living here. He’d used whatever Blurr had lying around if he needed something, and sure, he’d offered money in return for the polish, the energon, the small parts and pieces every mech kept in a repair kit for the minor breakdowns of everyday life. 

Blurr had refused the shanix. It’d seemed petty to charge his lover for stuff like that. He wasn’t running a business out of his apartment. It wasn’t as though he gave Swindle free drinks at the bar, after all. He’d tried a couple times, but Swindle had given him a speaking Look doubting his sanity and business sense. To Swindle’s mind, business was a mutual exchange of money for goods and services no matter what buyer and seller were involved. He’d nagged Blurr into submission over getting too friendly with bar clientele. The bar was a business, not a place to hemorrhage money away to drink-mooching buddies.

Apparently he’d seen the apartment as another business, one he could take advantage of. There had been nothing mutual about living together. Swindle had taken and taken, and Blurr had given and given, a one-sided sharing made painfully obvious in the aftermath when Swindle disappeared entirely. And really, Blurr had no one to blame but himself. 

He transformed to walk past the apparition at the corner. Swindle stood hunched over as if in pain, and Blurr stomped the urge to stop to help him. “Forget your key?” he said instead as he breezed past.

“Wasn’t sure you’d want to find me collapsed inside your door.” Limping steps followed him, and Blurr glanced over his shoulder. 

The raw light of an open wound flashed under a familiar smile. Spark-deep damage, the kind of damage that killed, and a squeezing pressure crimped Blurr’s spark. Tonight was the first time the ghost hadn’t appeared in the bar after closing, and his absence had mingled fear, regret, and grief in Blurr. Seeing the ghost here was almost a relief, but this was also the first time Blurr saw what had killed him. Rattrap had told him Starscream had shot Swindle in the chest, and the witnesses Blurr cornered described how the merchant had slid to the ground, dying slowly in the background of more dramatic going-ons, but nobody had brought the body back for a funeral of any sort. According to Windblade, the Camiens denied having it, but politics were involved. Who knew where Swindle’s body had actually vanished to. 

To a proper recycling, hopefully. Blurr didn’t like to think about a greyed-out corpse tossed on a scrapheap somewhere, forgotten. He missed the greedy fragger enough without hurting himself thinking of how his lover’s body could have been desecrated.

Seeing Swindle like this was worse than being haunted at the bar. There, Blurr could see the dead mech whole and healthy and know, seeing him, that the ghost wasn’t real. It hurt less, somehow. He hated how real Swindle looked, here. Shadows turned bright purple optics a tired lavender. Exposed sparklight flickered across his face from below, and thick, repair-nanite tainted energon smeared pink around the burnt-black edges of the open wound. The merchant couldn’t seem to straighten up, hunched over the injury. His shoulder dragged along the building for support as he limped down the street after Blurr.

Seeing Swindle suffer hurt. Blurr watched him in mute pain. What else could he do?

Vents heaving, the merchant made it at last. He leaned heavily against the wall beside the door and looked up at Blurr. “Can I come in?”

“I don’t know, can you?”

Swindle sighed. “You’re going to be difficult about this, aren’t you.” Blurr shot him a nasty look, and Swindle put a hand as if to ward it off. “Okay! Okay, fine, **may** I come in?”

“Why bother asking permission? My opinion doesn’t make a difference what you do,” Blurr said, looking away to palm the door open. 

He left it open behind him for the same reason he set a full glass at the end of the bar every night. Dead didn’t mean gone, not as long as he remembered, and he did. He missed the infuriating, stupid, spark-wrenching little greed-glitch. Despite remembering, despite knowing better, he’d still welcome Swindle into his home.

Silence filled the doorway behind him as he headed up the stairs. He refused to look back.

Soft words floated up after him. “I suppose I deserve that. But, I…I came back. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?” 

He stiffened at the faint nasal whine in Swindle’s voice, a peevish demand for forgiveness the merchant didn’t deserve. Snarling, the racer-turned bartender spun around to glare down the staircase. “ **Mean** anything? It’s supposed to **mean** something that you’re here? What do you want, a kiss? A pity frag? I know,” he widened his optics as if he suddenly understood, “a Get Out Of Jail Free card, right?”

Swindle stared at him. “Wha -- ?”

Blurr rode right over him, optics narrowed back to a disgusted, angry glare stabbing down the stairs at him. “What’s it supposed to mean that you’re here now, huh? What do you think it **means** that you screwed me over for your blasted greed? I had to find out what you did through **Rattrap** , what happened to you from **Rattrap** , and you think it **means** something that you came back? So **what**?!” He took two steps down, pointing a finger at Swindle. The merchant blinked rapidly, looking taken aback, and Blurr hated that his hand kept shaking. This wasn’t the first time he’d lost his temper at the ghost, but there was something new and terrible about shouting at him while a wire crisped in Swindle’s chest, a thin trail of smoke wisping from the too-real injury. The mech looked like a stiff wind would blow him over. “You say you came back like it matters. You came back? Who cares! You **left**.”

Swindle slumped in the open doorway, backlit by the streetlight. Even dimmed by pain, his hyper-expressive optics managed a look of dismay. “But I came back? I mean, it wasn’t supposed to be like that. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. I, uh, I screwed up, I know that now, but Starscream told me -- “

“Oh, **Starscream**. You know better than to believe anything that pit viper hisses. Everyone knows better!” 

“But -- I know, but -- “

Laughing bitterly, Blurr threw his hand up in a dismissive wave. It was suddenly so ludicrous. Arguing with a ghost about Starscream’s integrity added the final dollop of ridiculous to the entire night. “You came back, great, hurray, I’ll go get the confetti. Time to celebrate! I just won last place in your dumb life! Do I get a prize?” he asked in all sarcasm. “You could have called me for help when you needed it. I could’ve **done** something, but no, you took off on your own, and I had to find out what happened from **Rattrap**.”

“You could have called me, but you didn’t,” he repeated, anger deflating into a hollow sense of loss. “You trusted Starscream more than me. **Starscream**. You left me behind for him.” And yeah, that was a sore point. 

The look in Swindle’s optics was one of helplessness, like the ghost didn’t know how to deal with the sudden barrage of emotions. “I just, y’know. I thought you’d…”

“What? Turn you in?” He had no idea what he’d have done, but he bristled anyway, offended.

Swindle held his hands up, palms out, and laughed nervously. “Well, maybe not, but, just. You wouldn’t have, er, liked it. Even if Starscream hadn’t been involved.”

“You knew exactly what you were doing was wrong. **And** you were afraid to tell me you’d hooked up with the Decepticons again,” Blurr said, practically spitting acid.

“I’m not a Decepticon!”

“Could have fooled me!”

“I -- hey, it was business decision, not a faction one.” 

“If you’re trying to convince me you made the right choice anywhere in that mess, you can save your breath. Get real. You were Starscream’s political pawn from start to finish, and he made every decision for you. Then he got rid of the evidence,” Blurr said, tasting bitterness like purged fuel in the back of his throat, and he shut off his optics. “You.” 

He’d had this discussion too many times with the ghost in the past two weeks. Angry as he was with Swindle, he was absolutely livid at what Starscream had done. It was hard to stay angry at Swindle for falling for Starscream’s tricks. Sunstreaker had known better, too, and everyone kept warning Wheeljack to no effect. Everyone had a weak point, and Starscream excelled at finding the right leverage to stick into the soft spot. Swindle had been a greed-blinded fool, but Blurr blamed Starscream for what had happened on Caminus. 

Bringing his optics back online, he looked down at the ghost of his lover and felt his spark break all over again. “You never stood a chance.”

Swindle eyed him strangely, hands falling back to his sides. “…okay?”

Blurr shook his head. Turning, he threw out a beckoning gesture. “Whatever. Get up here if you’re coming. Get lost if you’re not. I don’t care either way.” 

He lied. He did care if Swindle followed him up the stairs, but he tried not to. Inviting a ghost into his home made no more or less sense than talking to a ghost in his bar every night. It didn’t change anything, yet the ache in his chest swelled, easing as much as it hurt anew. Maybe he’d feel less lonely coming home alone, now. 

After a long minute, limping footsteps started a slow progress up the stairs. Blurr squared his shoulders and left the apartment door open. Instead of standing there waiting like a lovesick fool, he wandered over to the bed to sort through the heap of junk it had somehow acquired. He had no idea how his habsuites attracted clutter. It hadn’t been bad before, back when Swindle had --

Swindle was the organized one. Blurr had gotten used to living in a tidy home until one day it wasn’t.

“You should clean in here.”

Of course that’s what he’d say. Blurr huffed his vents. The whuff of air could barely be heard over the roaring whirr of Swindle’s fans laboring to dump heat. “You should see the bar.” What was he saying? Swindle had seen it just last night. The ghost’s disapproving frown had reminded Blurr to mop when he’d usually just toss a towel on the worst puddles and go home.

“I’m scared to,” Swindle said through deep breaths. “Dare I ask about the state of your finances?”

“No.” 

Blurr’s reply came out hard, voice cold, and Swindle winced back at the sharp denial, spare tire bumping against the door as it closed behind him. “I…sorry. That’s…yeah. I know you won’t -- shouldn’t -- trust me with that again.”

It wasn’t that. It was more that Swindle had been the one to put his bar’s finances in order, and even looking at the spreadsheets tore a burning hole in Blurr’s spark ever since. Talking about them with a ghost would just be ripping the wound open further. 

He busied himself chucking a trophy and a bunch of medals from Velocitron out of sight. He didn’t want them around. They seemed sort of tacky at the moment. Injecting cheer into his voice took near physical effort, like straightening his legs against cramped cables during the warm-up lap. “Forget about it,” he said. “Are you visiting for a reason, or did you just want to chat?”

Swindle hesitated, the pause obvious for the way his heaving vents soughed in the expectant silence. “Uh, look. I hate to hear you say _‘I told you so,’_ but I really don’t have anyone else left to turn to. There’s nowhere else I can go, not after,” he shrugged, smile forced and uneasy, “uh, not after what I did. You're mad, I get it, really, I don't blame you and I’m sorry, my hand to Primus I am, but the truth is I’m here ‘cause I need a place to stay."

He couldn't help but start laughing. The blunt statement took him by surprise. It was the last thing he’d expected Swindle to say, just outright admit like that, and once he started laughing he couldn’t stop. "Are you," he gasped through guffaws, "are you apologizing -- are you trying to -- are you saying you're s-sorry so I'll let you -- let you back into my bed?"

"Ah, well." Large purple optics stared at him, somewhat worried as Blurr bent double to slap a knee in a convulsion of humor at the fragged-up nature of the universe in general. "Yes? I'm sorry anyway, but it's, er. I'm kind of a wanted mech. Please?"

In other words, it'd take desperation and the law riding his bumper to make Swindle apologize for screwing Blurr over. It didn't seem quite so funny anymore.

Blurr kept laughing. He couldn't help it, even as the spasms of laughter started to feel like sobs. "Of course. Of course you are. I can't think of any other reason you'd show up at my door saying you're sorry. Why would I ever think differently?"

Swindle leaned back against the door, still staring. "Does that mean I can stay?"

"Pfftahahahaha!"

"Blurr?"

The racer-turned-bartender straightened up, throwing his arms out as if to put the whole apartment at Swindle's disposal. "Oh, sure! You came back, after all! And that's the important part, am I right? Make yourself at home."

The tiny flinch made Blurr feel like a heel, but he couldn't take back the mockery. He didn't want to. Swindle deserved to have his smug salesmech face rubbed in his mistakes, for once. 

Besides, seeing him flinch at least confirmed Swindle had the grace to know what he'd put Blurr through. It wasn't much, not in the context of a relationship that was over if it'd ever begun and the ghost of his lover haunting him nightly, but it was something.

And somehow, it was enough. Awkwardly timed apology aside, it was an apology, and Swindle _had_ come back. Too late to mean anything in reality, but it meant the world to Blurr's stupidly romantic spark. Let Swindle stay here with him. He'd spent the last two weeks vacillating between fury and grief, trying to come to terms with Swindle leaving, so let him come back. Blurr hadn't found any answers talking to his ghost at the bar. He hadn't found any answers screaming at him, either. Yelling himself hoarse at a dead mech was a sad way to mourn, but it was one way to find peace. He was too slagging tired to hold a grudge tonight.

He spun on his heel and fell back across the bed, arms spread. It'd been a long day. It'd been an even longer two weeks. Betrayed, angry denial took a lot of energy, and sadness exhausted him. He hadn't felt this tired since running a marathon on Velocitron. He was a sprinter. Long-term exertion emptied his reserves, leaving him hollow, spark whirling.

Swindle didn’t move. He looked uncomfortable, waiting for some sign of welcome, but Blurr sighed. "It’s safe here, if that's what you're worried about," he said. Turning onto his side, he curled in loose, weary ball on his side of the bed. 'His' side, even after two weeks recharging alone. 

"That's not the part that worried me," Swindle said dryly. "I thought you'd pitch me out on my aft the second I showed up." Blurr harrumphed. "Guess I'm lucky you're the forgiving type." _'An Autobot,'_ he didn't say, but then again, maybe not. Autobots didn't tend to forgive Decepticons.

Blurr snorted. "Hard to throw a dead mech out," he subvocalized through the tightness in his throat. He curled a bit tighter, bringing his knees up to his windshield. Grief cut his optics offline. "Lay down and shut up. I don't want to talk anymore. I've had a bad day, and I want to shut down for the night."

Slow footsteps dragged toward the bed. "I...huh." A clicking reset of a vocalizer, and Swindle sounded less openly amazed when he spoke again. "I thought you'd make me crash on the floor." _'After what I did,'_ he didn't say, but they both heard the silent words.

"Just don't touch me," Blurr muttered. He didn't think he could take that. The ghost hadn't tried to touch him, but neither of them had ventured close enough in the bar to make the attempt. 

"Cold shoulder? Ouch." The joking tone fell flat.

Yes, Blurr was giving him the cold shoulder. "Shut. Up."

"Alright, alright, shutting up."

The bed rocked in a painfully familiar way, and Blurr pushed his face into the dusty padding underneath his head. His imagination always got its most vivid on the edge of recharge. It didn't help that his memory insisted on dwelling on the details, the little moments of living with someone else that he'd missed so much in their absence. The slight movement of the bed felt real. It wasn’t, but it hurt because he could almost imagine it was. 

Swindle hadn’t kept stuff. Anything physical could be sold. He’d treated belongings as temporary possessions, things to stock a warehouse and eventually be moved out to buyers. The things he’d owned had been part of his business, and he han’t bring his business into Blurr’s home. 

It took until he died for Blurr to realize what Swindle had shared had been the priceless things, the time and affection a pricetag couldn’t be stapled to. Not for lack of trying, but there it was. His home felt colder and emptier in Swindle’s absence, even though the merchant hadn’t added or taken so much as a piece of furniture, and it hurt to remember him being here. 

The pained grunts of an injured mech were new, but the ghost made noise. Blurr was used to that. 

Swallowing against the tightness of his throat, he mumbled, "You're not getting any sympathy from me.”

Swindle made a sound. It might have been a choked laugh. 

Blurr sent a wireless signal to the lights. They dimmed toward dark. He hadn't recharged with the lights off for a couple of weeks now, too afraid waking up to see a glint of purple in the dark and breaking down. His spark had done enough jumping for one night, however. It was weirdly comforting to think he might see the ghost looking back at him if he woke up.

"Blurr?" whispered quietly from behind him.

"Shut up."

Swindle's voice fell even lower, barely audible. "I should have come back before."

His hands closed into fists so tight the knuckle joints creaked. "You shouldn't have left at all."

"Yeah." The merchant gave that choked little laugh again. "But I did, so I'm sorry I didn't come back sooner."

It wasn't worth replying to. Regrets changed nothing for the dead. Especially not for the dead.

Blurr forced his recharge protocols online.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	5. Pt. 5

**Title:** Dark Horses  
**Warning:** A relationship extrapolation from what Robots In Disguise (the comic) showed of Swindle and Blurr.  
**Rating:** PG  
**Continuity:** IDW  
**Characters:** Swindle, Blurr  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** Continuation for the delightful FlyFloyd. Thank you!

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Part 5: Wherein Blurr tries to do the right thing.**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

Old habits died hard, especially ones that saved his life while enlisted in the Wreckers. Proximity sensors brought him out of recharge hard and fast as the ghost stirred, and Blurr had to repress the immediate urge to roll to his feet and sprint to open the distance. Swindle wasn’t going to attack him.

“Leaving so soon?” he asked while forcing the tension from his gears. He kept his optics offline.

Swindle didn’t do guilt, even caught red-handed. “It’s probably better for your business if I’m not seen hanging around your place,” he said smoothly.

“You’re probably right.” Bitterness thickened Blurr’s throat, roughening the words. Getting caught talking to someone no one else could see would do nothing for him in the rumormill. It hadn’t done Starscream any favors, at least. The Tankors had a betting pool going on whether or not he’d finally tipped over the edge into total insanity. The odds were 5-to-1 on Starscream talking out loud to a figment of his imagination just to make people pay attention to him. The next highest bet featured a hallucination of Megatron. Blurr, for obvious reasons, hadn’t gone anywhere near the betting.

Hesitance touched the silence for a long minute, as if Swindle didn’t know how to respond. “I’ll be back,” the dead conmech said at last.

“Yeah. Sure, whatever.” A sense of relief swept through Blurr, although he wouldn’t admit it. He hadn’t expected the ghost to give him a promise of return. Uncertainty made closing the bar an exercise in common sense versus unreasonable hope that tonight the dead would visit. 

Another hesitation, followed by the sound of footsteps limping across the room. “See you tonight.”

He didn’t roll over to watch Swindle leave him again. It hurt how much he didn’t want to care. “If you say so.”

The door clicked shut. 

Optics stubbornly offline, Blurr fought the ache in his chest for another few hours. Recharge hovered out of reach. The protocols wouldn’t take, spinning his processors up to full power. Sighing, he finally gave up on sleeping and sat up. It wasn’t too surprising his processors wouldn’t settle. The scent of burnt wiring lingered in the apartment, more of a memory than a reality, but electrical damage had a distinctive scent. It triggered a visceral fear in the depths of Cybertronian minds. Imagining it in the air would keep anybody awake.

As per usual, he felt like he hadn’t slept at all. His joints creaked from poor maintenance. His fans rattled when he ran hot, which he was starting to do more often as he pushed through the metal-deep weariness to work every night at the bar. Scrubbing the heels of his hands against his optics helped somewhat. It pushed them open against a tired squint caused by optical receivers complaining of too much input and not enough downtime. Working the shutters around his optics scraped the metal, however. It was a telltale sign of someone running short on recharge, and it’d become an unflattering constant on Blurr’s face in the last weeks. 

Waspinator had been the only customer tactless enough to poke his nonexistent nose into why Blurr looked rundown lately, but the racer-turned-bartender’s vents had flared open in unconscious preparation for the starting pistol, a warning sign that his temper was absolutely shot. Racing, combat, yelling; same difference. Both required a deep inhale to cool his engine right before launch. Windblade had hauled the buzzy mech out of reach a second later right as Blurr turned, ready to tear a strip off him. 

Windblade had a fondness for Waspinator. She hadn’t wanted to see him get his aft kicked by an irate bartender. Blurr had subsided, grumbling, and dropped the fight before it began. He’d settled for overcharging and underfueling Waspinator the rest of the night as petty revenge. Serving the mech overpriced weak engex spritzers was better than making a scene. Possibly. Maybe. Windblade had kept Waspinator away from the counter, just in case.

Come to think of it, there had been quite a few similar incidents throughout the past three weeks. Everyone in the bar kept their distance and fielded meddling reporters eager for a soundbite on Swindle’s death. Blurr and Swindle’s relationship hadn’t been a secret, but nobody who didn’t frequent the bar to see them together had known about it before the media decided the growing _’Swindle Lives’_ underground movement needed a famous face to spice up things. Suddenly, Blurr couldn’t go a single night without some obnoxious newsie sticking a camera in his face, asking invasive questions about how he _felt_ about Starscream _executing_ his _lover_.

How he felt? How he _felt?!_

He felt like he wanted his nights back, driving circles around Swindle’s slow altmode as they went home. He felt cheated of stolen kisses, laced by engex and wry humor as Swindle chided him for some financial faux pas, muffled by their lips. He felt hollowed out, arms colder for their emptiness.

What he felt toward Starscream didn’t bear repeating in public. As a business owner on a Cybertron ruled by a vindictive ex-Decepticon, Blurr couldn’t afford to speak his mind. Besides, as much as he blamed Starscream, he supported Windblade just as much. She firmly believed Starscream was the only reason Cybertron hadn’t plunged back into war, and Wheeljack cautiously seconded the idea.

So Blurr kept his mouth shut whenever the questions started. His friends -- or at least patrons whose loyalty had been bought for the price of a free drink -- took care of the rest, usually by physically ejecting the pests from his bar.

The latest ban had been carried out by Slug. Last night, he’d thrown an annoying ‘journalist’ for East Iacon’s gossip rag out after running him into a couple walls. Blurr didn’t remember why the Dinobot had been in such a bad mood. He’d been too busy picking glass shards out of his hand to notice when or how Slug got involved in that little confrontation. He didn’t know how the shotglass had shattered, either. One minute he’d been blowing the journalist’s questions off, smiling his classic smile from back in his racing days, and the next thing he knew, Slug had exploded into roaring fury. Then the Dinobot had sat back down as if nothing had happened. By the end of the night, only reporter-shaped dents in his wall remained as proof of the incident.

It wasn’t the first such incident, and based on how the month had been going, it wouldn’t be the last. He really wasn’t handling Swindle’s death well at all, delusional conversations with a ghost notwithstanding, but being hounded by gossip-hungry reporters wasn’t helping. Seriously, who thought harassing a grieving mech was a good idea? What was next, finding a mourning widower and asking when the endura anniversary was?

Blurr brooded on the problem as he drove to the bar. The speed limit seemed too fast. He lagged behind traffic, vaguely bothered as he was passed but unable to muster the energy to accelerate.

The whole day felt as though his processors mired in glue. Time crept. His optic shutters acquired more scrapes. People kept sending careful, worried looks in his direction. Both Tankors ‘casually’ asked how he was doing during the busy rush. He told them he was fine, but they didn’t look like they believed him. Jazz would have slipped behind the bar, taking over as a tactful hint to take a break, but Jazz had taken up the Autobot badge again. He’d left the bar and Cybertron without a look back. It was Swindle all over again. If Jazz died while fighting a finished war, color Blurr unsurprised. Seemed to be a lot of that going around.

To top off a lousy day -- in a series of lousy days, because realistically, it’d been lousy month -- the ghost was a no-show. Blurr's spark compacted into a pinprick of grief in his chest by the end of the night, but he didn’t delay closing time. Hope was futile. He knew that. Holding onto it only hurt him.

He refused to acknowledge the pain as he shut the place down. Standing in the door of the bar, hand on the lock, he looked out into the street in blank exhaustion. Nobody waited outside. 

Tired enough to weave over the lane dividers, he drove back to his apartment.

The lights were on.

"Primus." Blurr transformed, stumbling as gears ground from the speed he shot upright, and his optics rounded as he stared up at his windows. He must have left them online all night. Was he so strung out he’d forgotten basic energy-saving regulations in place since before the war began? Frag him. He was lucky the neighborhood was abandoned. Nobody was around to call city authorities on his waste. 

Maybe he did need to take a couple days off. Grimacing, he rubbed the back of his hand across his optics for the thousandth time tonight. "Too bad Rung's gone," he muttered to himself as he opened the door. "Might need the help." 

He should ask Wheeljack to do a check-up on him. The engineer wasn't a bad sort, even if he kept associating with Starscream. The guy claimed Starscream liked him. Said he was lonely. Of course, Wheeljack also passed on the one-sided conversations he'd heard old Screamer having with thin air, so Starscream couldn’t have him too fooled. 

Shaking his head to banish the rambling thoughts, Blurr climbed the stairs. He had to brace one hand on the wall. His gyros shifted dizzyingly in the dark, and taking a tumble down the stairs would certainly be a spectacular end to the night.

He expected the light at the top of the stairs. The smell of burnt wiring filled the air, but he'd half-expected that. He'd been smelling it on his plating all day, his subconscious projecting something that wasn't there. Now, the yellow and purple plating curled on his bed, that he hadn’t expected at all. 

Swindle hadn’t come to the bar. Blurr hadn’t dared hope he’d be here in the apartment.

The small bundle of dull armor huddled in on itself like the ghost hurt even while recharging. Blurr swayed in the door, and a lump formed in his throat as he looked at his dead lover. He wanted --

He wanted to walk over to the bed, lean down, cup his hands around Swindle's face, and kiss the merchant awake. He wanted that moment right before huge purple optics lit. The moment proximity sensors registered another presence behind the pressure on slack lips, Swindle’s jaw tensing in the predictable _Friend-or-Foe?_ second as war-taught habit kicked in hard. Blurr wanted that moment as he wanted nothing else. It was a scarce second of uncertainty when he didn’t know whether Swindle would come out of recharge ready to attack, but he pressed his lips to the merchant’s anyway. _He_ trusted, and from that trust came a tender, treasured moment as Swindle identified him. Returned trust softened Swindle's lips to his own even before those bright optics saw him. and a sharp pain throbbed in Blurr’s chest as he stood in the doorway missing that trust.

Swindle had chosen to override learned wariness every time they kissed, trusting Blurr's intentions despite war and old history. Recent, shared events had lit something between them, and Blurr wanted it _back_. He wanted to kiss Swindle awake in long, slow kisses gliding his lips over that expressive mouth until it moulded to the perfect counterpart to his own mouth, meeting him kiss for kiss.

No, not a perfect counterpart. Blurr wanted to work for it. Their kisses had always been moving things, mouths seeking each other in a search for a better fit. He could imagine Swindle's head turning on the bed to meet him coming down. Blurr would duck down to move their lips together, a teasing slip of his tongue there, a taste of Swindle there. He knew exactly how far to tilt his helm to miss hitting their forehelms together, to slide their noses by each other, to breath the warm ex-vent from Swindle's fans in. 

He missed fitting together that way. He wanted it again.

Well, he wanted a lot of things he couldn’t have. Wishes won no one a race. Blurr banished the wistful ache stuck in his throat as he stepped into his apartment. 

The sound of his throat clearing jerked Swindle awake, and dim lavender optics peered over a shoulder-tire in bleary wariness. "Blurr..?" 

Blurr managed a listless wave. "Hi. You’re still here.”

"Yes?" Blinking recharge away, Swindle grunted as he levered himself upright. The hole in his chest didn't look any better than last night, but what had Blurr expected? Dead was dead. The mech wasn't getting any better or deader. "I said I'd come back," Swindle said once he was sitting up.

"I guess you did." 

The bed tempted him, but he didn't think he could take breaking the fantasy. Sitting down on a cold, empty bed would hurt his spark. Plus Swindle was on his side of the bed, which he’d never done while alive. It was a stupid thing to get upset over, but Blurr couldn't bear the thought of using Swindle's side of the bed. He'd probably curl up, face buried in the dusty, salvaged bed pad as he sniffed for the slightest remnant of his lover, something real to remember, and it’d be both unbearably sad and terribly pathetic.

Instead, Blurr shuffled along the wall toward one of the seats by the north window, rolling his shoulders as he sat down. The joints where his boosters twisted around to set on his back in rootmode grated oddly. He really needed Wheeljack to take a look at him. 

Swindle gave him a look. It held familiar worry. He was used to seeing it in Windblade's optics, not Swindle's, but it looked the same. "Are you all right?" the merchant asked.

"Fine," he said shortly. "Tired."

Swindle didn't look convinced but pressed his lips together as if cutting off further comment. Scooting over to his side of the bed, he opened his hand over the vacated area like an invitation. "Go ahead and recharge. You don't have to keep me company." 

But the small gesture of concern made Blurr strangely reluctant to move. "The chair's fine."

"You're going to stiffen up if you recharge on that thing," Swindle snapped. Regret immediately filling his optics, and, wincing, he held up his hands. "Sorry. Do you, ah," his optics slid to the side, "would you rather I move? I can move, no problem. I can recharge on the floor if you want the bed."

Stubborn, Blurr folded his arms. "I said I'm fine." The merchant set his chin in the peculiar angle he knew meant Swindle wasn't going to let it go, so he changed the subject. "Why're you here?"

Annoyance disappeared beneath a sudden unreadable mask. “I told you, I haven’t got anywhere else to go.”

Evasion successful! Unfortunately, this was also a sensitive topic. Frag. 

Blurr shored up his flagging willpower. Unpleasant as this conversation promised to be, it was still a conversation they should have. It'd been three weeks, after all, and...he was tired. So tired. He obviously wasn’t coping well. Grief wasn't getting any lighter a burden to bear. 

“You don’t have to stay here," he said softly, looking down at his lap. Saying it out loud frightened him, as if the ghost would take this as permission to leave forever, but it wasn’t fair to Swindle if he stayed for Blurr’s sake alone. Blurr couldn’t be that selfish. The dead were meant to return to the Matrix, not haunt the living. He forced himself to say, "I mean, you can leave. You can go on.”

Swindle barked a laugh, but it stuttered in the middle. A burst of hot light from inside his chest heralded another fried wire. “Go where?” he asked through a gasp of pain.

Blurr ran his thumb over a smudge on his thigh. “There has to be somewhere you’re supposed to be. You can’t just wander Cybertron forever. Or follow me around." He turned his head to look out the window, not that he saw anything. He just wanted to avoid looking at the ghost. "It’s not that I’m not…happy to see you. I’m grateful you came back, but you don’t have to stay just because of that. That was,” he swallowed against the lump, which wouldn’t be cleared this time, “that was **before**. Things have changed, Swindle.” Oh, Primus, it hurt to say this. He made himself meet Swindle’s optics. “I miss you, but you have things you should probably be doing. I understand. It’s okay. You can leave.”

Swindle's motor sputtered as the merchant stared back at him, optics wider than usual. He seemed stricken.

Blurr picked his words with care. “I’m not making you leave or anything, but maybe it’s time you just weren’t here anymore.”

“Are you throwing me out?” Swindle asked, voice oddly choked, and cold fear speared Blurr through the spark.

Don't leave him, don't leave him, don't leave him _again_ \-- “No! No, it’s just kind of weird having you here." He consciously throttled back, slowing his words. The corners of his mouth felt leaden as he risked a smile. "Having a dead mech in my apartment is weird.” Weirder than having him show up at his bar nightly. More personal, at least, and definitely more stressful.

"Oh." Swindle swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat staring at the floor as he thought about it. “I thought you -- hmm. Yeah, I guess you’re not used to all this. It’s not easy for me, but I didn’t think about, well, you.” He gave Blurr a sickly, lopsided grin. “Your business, but not you. Bad habit, I know.”

Laughter hurt, and it came out wilder than Blurr intended, but he wanted the humor. He wanted to still be able to laugh. Of course Swindle had planned his haunting to minimize impact on Blurr’s business. He’d shown up at the bar only when everyone else had left, appeared when no one else was around to overhear the bartender talking to thin air, and come to the apartment where no one else ever came. It was so _Swindle_ that Blurr had to laugh.

Swindle lost the grin, blinking confusion at Blurr’s gigglefit, but he pressed on after a disconcerted pause. “I think it’s better that I stay dead. No sense in everyone seeing me. Word travels fast. Don't want the wrong people riding my bumper."

Chuckling, optic shutters half-closed in a tired squint, Blurr fell forward to brace his elbows on his knees. “Yeah, hallucinations are traffic hazards. They’d probably mode-lock me if I said I see dead mechs. 'Sorry officer, but I braked for the ghost. I swear, he was right in front of me. Sorry about the pile-up!'" He hung his helm until all he could see was the floor between his feet. "Heh. That’d go over well.”

He was so tired it the circuitry in the backs of his optics crackled. The receptors registered complaints about their overuse, and he offlined them. Darkness felt good. He sent a wireless command to the apartment lights and brought his optics back online slowly, letting them adjust to night vision. The only light came from a neon sign far down the street outside.

And purple light from the optics across the room. They were wide and focused on him. “Are you okay?” Swindle asked, and his concern was audible.

The darkness made it easier to confess what Blurr didn’t say to anyone else. “I’ve missed you. It’s nice having you here, but I miss having you at the bar every night. I still leave a drink out for you.”

“Kind of wish you’d bring it home for me.”

A hard knot in his chest cracked at hearing Swindle call the apartment 'home.' Blurr fought to lighten his tone. “I thought you didn’t want me to give you free drinks.”

“I’m already a freeloader. Might as well get a drink out of it." Metal clanked as Swindle got to his feet. The purple optics across the room rocked a bit unsteadily, tightening Blurr's tanks, but the merchant stayed upright. "Are you sure you’re okay with this? I can find somewhere else to go. Just give me a couple days to get in contact with, er, old friends, and I can -- "

"I don't want you to go," Blurr interrupted, words rushed, and he tore his optics away. "I don't want you to, but if you have to, I understand."

When it came down to it, no. No, he didn't want to be alone. He'd rather have a ghost than nothing.

It had to be Blurr's overactive imagination projecting relief into Swindle's voice. "Well! That's decided, then." It dipped into the brittle charisma of a salesmech stretched to his limits. "Still, if it's all the same to you, I **am** going to go out for a bit. This is getting a little hard to handle, as you might be able to tell." 

He might have been referring to the tension between them. He might have been talking about the ill gurgle of his damaged engine. He might even have been taking the excuse to vacate the bed in hopes Blurr would take it. Frankly, Blurr wouldn't put any reason past the slick conmech.

"Will you be back?" he asked, unable not to.

Swindle paused on his way to the door. "I don't have anywhere else to go," he said. It wasn't a convincing cover to the hope in purple optics turned toward him.

"You should," Blurr said. "You don't have to stay here." Not for his sake, he meant, but his voice held no conviction.

Swindle took a deep breath, fans rattling on their hubs, and turned to face him. "What if I want to?"

Blurr twitched. A full-body twitch, hands fisting on his thighs and spark jumping in his chest. It was too close to what he wanted, deep down where he was afraid to admit it. What he needed. "Then don't wake me up when you come in," he said, and if he shook, then he pretended the darkness concealed it.

Swindle smiled so wide the distant neon light caught the bright flash of white teeth. 

Blurr sat in the dark shaking long after he'd limped away.

**[* * * * *]**


	6. Pt. 6

**Title:** Dark Horses  
**Warning:** A relationship extrapolation from what Robots In Disguise (the comic) showed of Swindle and Blurr.  
**Rating:** PG  
**Continuity:** IDW  
**Characters:** Swindle, Blurr  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** Continuation for the delightful FlyFloyd. Thank you! 

**[* * * * *]**  
**Part 6: Appropriate song for these two is now “I Found” by Amber Run.**  
**[* * * * *]**

By the eighth reporter that week, Blurr knew everything there was to know about the _‘Swindle Lives’_ movement. He hadn’t wanted to know. Remaining ignorant wasn’t a viable solution, but he had enough to deal with on his own without adding an entire planet’s issues to the load.

Regardless, now he knew. The Decepticons were on the move again, discontent and anger in the back alleys of Iacon, and Swindle’s death had become their rallying cry. The whole thing enraged Blurr, but he also found it deeply disturbing. Partly from warmongers using his lover’s death for their purposes, but partly from how they were doing it.

Swindle _Lives_. Present tense. Veeeeery disturbing to a mech who slept beside Swindle’s ghost. 

“Are you behind it?” asked the ex-racer as he came to the top of the apartment stairs and stopped in the doorway. 

Big purple optics blinked confusion at him, but Blurr knew Swindle could act any role. Innocent until proven guilty, and even afterward if Swindle had a good lawyer. 

Blurr frowned at him. “Are you the one causing trouble? ‘Cons are painting your name on things across Iacon and Metroplex. It’s getting a lot of attention.” Despite Starscream working damage control, the sleazebag.

“There’s no one person or thing behind the trouble brewing, and you know it.” Scoffing, the ghost went back to what he’d been doing before Blurr came in. He seemed to be using a pair of needlenose pliers to crimp the edges of the patch on his chest flat to encourage it to repair smooth. 

Blurr shook his head. Crimping would help, but the effort was doomed to failure. The crude patch had appeared on Swindle’s chest two days ago, covering the raw hole through his front grill and radiator. While it was obviously better than an open wound and he didn’t reek of burnt wires anymore, self-repair couldn’t do much for a wound that large. It’d struggle to integrate the patch, and there would be a noticeable ride of weldscar where natural metal met it. A properly welded patch done by a real medic would heal without a scar, but not that. 

Not that repairs really mattered, in the end. A ghost was a ghost.

Sighing, Blurr walked over to the table to set down a sealed glass of engex. He’d stopped leaving it at the bar afterhours ever since the ghost began appearing exclusively in his apartment. “I just thought you might be out stirring up people.” 

“Now why would I do that?” Swindle asked. Bright tone aside, resentment oozed from his voice.

Blurr didn’t have the spark to blame him for that, but a restless ghost appearing to Decepticons looking for a cause created a problem for their wartorn planet. People were taking sides, half-forgotten animosity boiling toward an exploding point. Out of a tired sense of responsibility, Blurr put a hand on the table beside the ghost and bent to catch his optics with his own. “They’re calling for justice for you.”

“Are they? Good for them.”

“Swindle.” Exhaustion dragged his lover’s name out into groan.

Guilt darkened purple to dusky violet, but those big optics met reproving blue with a stubborn glare. “Maybe I don’t deserve justice,” said the conmech, pushed to defense, “but I didn’t deserve a death sentence, either. Don’t tell me you think Starscream should get away with fragging up Cybertron like this.”

“Windblade says -- “

“I don’t **care** what that colonist says! She’s a good person -- great contact, don’t get me wrong -- but she’s not one of us!”

Blurr’s hand clenched into a fist on the table, but his optics didn’t change from weary, pallid blue as he asked, “Who’s ‘us’?”

Swindle hesitated.

Racer-turned-Autobot-turned-bartender, talking to a conmech-turned-weapons dealer-turned-Decepticon-turned-merchant. Only one of those identities mattered in this discussion. “Yeah,” Blurr said. “That’s what I thought.” Whatever answer Swindle invented to cover the pause, that pause spoke louder than words. It told the truth. Blurr had served drinks tonight to whole tables stopped mid-conversation, gazes awkwardly trained on ceiling or drinks as everyone avoided each other’s optics. Decepticon, Autobot, and neutral alike waffled over a relatively simple question with a just-as-simple answer: _‘us’_ meant _‘Decepticon.’_

Nobody was willing to say it out loud. They felt war hovering, waiting to swoop in on cue. 

To be fair, the ‘Cons and ex-‘Cons at the bar hesitated because they didn’t _want_ to separate themselves from the rest of Cybertron and the colonists again. Protesting Starscream’s rule drew a line between the factions, but the factions were reluctant to let go of the peace even as they prepared for war. Nobody wanted to answer because answering would make it impossible to pretend they could get along. They had tried so hard to make reality out of fantasy.

The second half of the night had devolved into a chaotic sing-along as people desperately grasped at distractions to banish the morose discussion. Blurr had thrown a spontaneous sale on cocktails, and his patrons had sucked down engex by the keg, buying rounds for friends and strangers alike. A frenetic sense of joy had fed the party, pumped beyond normal heights as if to overwhelm the awareness of oncoming war. Happiness was a finite resource on Cybertron. They wanted to grab as much as they could before time ran out. 

Blurr knew the feeling. 

“I guess civil war doesn’t ever get any easier,” he said matter-of-factly as he straightened up. Feet dragging, he made his way to the other side of the table, where he slumped into the other chair and put his face in his hands, the heels of his hands working into optic shutters. 

Swindle stared at him, expression conflicted, but the glass of engex provided a good distraction. He abandoned repairs in order to snatch it up, but he stopped halfway through peeling up the seal. Eyeing how the lanky mech across from him sat, he asked, “Hey, when’s the last time you refueled?” 

Dull blue optics blinked at him. “I had something this afternoon. I think.” His engine needed the boost to get him through the nights, lately, so he’d taken to pouring himself a high-octane dose of energon early in the shift. 

Swindle squinted suspicion at his vague answer. “You think?”

“Mmhm.” Although now that Blurr thought about it, his tank gauge didn’t agree. Prodding his memory banks produced an error message. He remembered pouring the fuel, but had he actually drank it? That might explain why he’d moved stiff and slow as though mired in glue all night, resting his hip against the bar as he labored to lift heavy trays of glasses. 

Well, nothing to be done about it now. He’d fill up tomorrow. Low as he was, he wasn’t running on fumes yet. He sat back and slouched down further, pulling his arms up in a loose fold over his chest to keep them from sliding off his lap and hanging limp at his sides. Recharge protocols threatened to come online right here where he sat. Maybe just a nap…

Engex sloshed as Swindle pushed the glass across the table toward him, however, and Blurr forced his optics to focus. The ghost frowned at him. “Here, you drink it.” 

It took effort to raise his hand in a weak wave of dismissal. “Nah. I’m fine.”

Swindle’s frown deepened, that wide mouth turned down in a tempting curve. His bottom lip pushed out. It made Blurr want to lean in to nibble it, and he smiled slightly as the ghost insisted, “You’re not fine! Look at your finish! Look at **you**!” A top-to-bottom gesture indicated all of the Blurr to prove Swindle’s point. “You’re scuffed, you’re dull, I can see the wear on your tires from here. Did anyone at that Primus-damned race bother to tune you up after you won? Racers put major strain on their bodies running those tracks, you **know** that. I’ll bet you haven’t topped up since you got back to Cybertron, and it’s obvious you’re not recharging well. You’re coming home after I get in and waking up before I leave, and don’t tell me you’re going back to sleep once I’m out the door because I stood outside and watched the lights come on!“

Blurr’s fond smile softened, lips pressing together as regret ached near his spark. Swindle was in full rant mode, an irate infomercial salesmech selling damaged goods, and he’d missed this. Not the tirade on his state of mind and neglected self-care, but the passion. Swindle had an immense _passion_ for persuading other people into things, be it a sale or point of view. If not for single-minded greed driving him into commercial enterprises, he’d make a decent politician.

“You’re not fueling. Are you even remembering to intake something besides engex? You can’t run on engex! It’s quick-burn, not real fuel, and anyway, it’s more expensive than regular midgrade. What kind of business sense do you **have** , mech? You’ll bankrupt yourself right before you drop into stasis lack from low fuel, and your tank’s probably corroded from here to Luna 1 from sucking down your distillery product like a Tankor. Leave swilling engex to the addicts and take care of yourself, for shanix’s sake!”

The lanky blue mech put his elbow on the table, leaning his head on his hand. Inert weight sank him down until the side of his chest came up against the table edge and stopped him. There he stayed, head at an angle, supported by his hand as he blinked contentedly at the loud, aggravated lecture being directed at him. Swindle’s engine growled, rattling as bad as Blurr’s fans, and the merchant upped his volume. His hands talked as much as his vocalizer, abbreviated chirolinguistics sculpting one-sided word-shapes into the air. Blurr could translate some of the wild gestures. They seemed to cursing him for a stubborn glitch. 

He wasn’t about to argue. The mild blue optics watching Swindle were dimming toward full dark. Behind them, Blurr’s mind didn’t follow much of what was being yelled at him. The words blended into a background droning sound he wanted to record, play back later, fall asleep to, live by.

Which didn’t soothe Swindle’s ruffled plating any. “Are you even listening?!” Throwing his hands up, the ghost fell back in his chair and huffed an angry ventilation cycle. “Are you doing this on purpose? Do I have to hobble you?”

Blurr’s smile slid crooked, humor piercing the lethargy briefly. “It’d be nice,” he admitted.

Purple optics turned sharp. Surging to his feet, Swindle _shoved_ the glass at Blurr. “Drink, you brainless speed demon.”

“That’s for you.”

“I don’t need it and you do, so drink it.”

“I don’t want it.”

“You’re going to **shut down** ,” Swindle flared, slapping his hands flat on the table. “What the frag is wrong with you, Blurr? Why are you doing this?”

Blurr turned his head away. His back creaked as he sat up, gingerly settling his boosters over the back of the chair. It gave him some distance from the angry ghost glaring at him in confused, almost hurt pleading. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Then what is it?” Swindle turned his hands up on the table, open and asking for something from his lover Blurr didn’t seem willing to give him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Blurr’s spark flip-flopped in his chest. His fingers curled against the table, resisting the urge to reach out for the offered hands. 

Swindle’s optics dropped to them, then went back to what he could see of Blurr’s face. “Look, I -- I’m sorry, okay? I know you’ve got no reason to trust me anymore, but there are things I **can’t** involve you in, stuff I can’t tell you about, and I’m sorry that I can’t do it, I’m sorry it upsets you, but I **won’t** put you in the middle of this mess. I know you’re a Wrecker -- were a Wrecker, whatever,” he shook his head, hand raised to placate an imaginary protest on Blurr’s part, “and I get it, you can handle yourself, but that’s under normal circumstances. This isn’t normal, Blurr, this is...fragging Pit, **fine** , I’ll say it.” He scowled. “It’s Decepticon business. Not even really business, but it’s still business, and you’re not part of my business. You’re not in that side of my life. I-I mean, maybe at some point.” 

The raised hand hastily dropped, fingers drumming on the table as his other hand went to rub the back of his neck. Swindle ducked his head to look down at the table between them. An awkward, somewhat bashful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “The two of us seem to work pretty well together, and the bar does better when I’m sorting the finances, you said so yourself, so maybe someday we could do business as partners. Equal partners, not just you buying furniture or distillery parts from me. I was thinking about franchise licenses for the bar, and, well, a 50-50 split would be easier if we were co-owners…”

He coughed, shaking his head to break free of whatever hopeful future he’d build in his thoughts. “Right, yeah, anyway. Just a thought. Neither here nor there.” A little embarrassed, he turned an earnest look on Blurr with all the power of his hyper-expressive optics behind it. “My point is, I’m not trying to hurt you. Right here and now, all I want is to take care of you. You’re hurting, Speedy. I want to help. Hand to Primus, that’s all. No tricks, no small print. This isn’t business, it’s you and me and nothing else. So you tell me. What can I do? What do you want from me?”

Blurr didn’t really follow everything Swindle said. It made no sense, passing through his head from audio to audio without making a connection, and his brow ridges drew together as he tried to find a reply. The words didn’t come.

“Blurr…” Swindle took a deep breath and held it. Optics off, he visibly dialed himself back, stuffing exposed emotion back behind a more composed façade. The professional salesmech once more, he lit his optics again while exhaling slowly. At the end of the ventilation cycle, he gave Blurr a steely look. “Drink the blasted engex,” he ordered.

The order made Blurr flinch, but the bartender made no move to reach for the drink. He was hungry, or at least his tanks pinged low, but taking the drink he left for Swindle didn’t feel right. “It’s disrespectful,” he mumbled at last, moved by the pressure of Swindle’s optics boring into the side of his helm.

“What? Why?” Swindle squinted one optic, puzzled.

“Because it’s yours,” Blurr said simply.

Silence. The squinted optic opened, Swindle’s confusion morphing into the galaxy’s most deadpan, level look. “Mine,” he said.

Blurr wouldn’t look at him. From the corner of his optic he could see blatant disbelief creeping into purple optics. “If it keeps you coming back, I’ll give you free drinks every night,” he said softly, solemn as an oath.

Swindle stared at him a moment more before tossing his hands out to the sides as if to show the universe how exasperated he was. “ **I’m already here!** I don’t need to be bribed, you twit! I left, but **I came back**. No drinks necessary! I came back, and I’m sorry I left, and I’ll apologize as many times as you want for leaving you, but just **please** stop dancing around the subject and **tell** me what I’ve gotta do to make you forgive me! And for love of gambling,” he burst into motion, grabbing the glass and stomping around the table to shove it into Blurr’s face, “refuel before I really do slap hobbles on you!”

The edge of the glass dented Blurr’s lower lip, the seal on top crinkling against his nose. Engex flooded his mouth as it sloshed out of the glass. Pink liquid dribbled from the corners of his mouth, falling off his chin to drip into his lap, but Blurr didn’t care. He didn’t even notice. Automatic functions stalled. His intakes malfunctioned, fuel filters accidentally closing, and the engex redirected into his open throat ventilation shaft. It met his air filters with predictable results.

A fine spray of pink mist immediately spritzed from every vent as his fans sputtered. Considering the number of vents packed into his racer frametype, everything around Blurr acquired a light pink coating of engex. He doubled over coughing, gasping to clear his ventilation system.

Swindle skipped back, grimacing as the glass fell to the floor and shattered. “Aw, slag, I didn’t mean -- fraggit, sorry. I shouldn’t have -- “

Optics out of focus, vents heaving for air, Blurr blinked upward. “Swindle?”

The apology cut off. Cautious, Swindle blinked back at the dazed blue mech. “Yeah?”

Blurr worked his mouth. Nothing came out but a trickle of engex.

“Blurr? You okay?”

“Swindle?” he asked again, voice quiet and trembling somewhere deep in his throat where shock had locked his intakes shut. 

He sounded so off kilter Swindle crouched to get a better look at him, a short-range scan running over his plating. “I’m right here.”

Every joint lost strength, hydraulics losing pressure and cables hanging lax. Hands shaking violently, Blurr struggled to reach out to his lover. “You’re alive,” he said, or he thought he did, but what did it matter if he actually spoke aloud? Hard plating met his seeking hands, cool and smooth as he gathered it into his arms, pulling a familiar presence to him. Shorter than him, heavier, more compact, and real, so very real, present as ever but here, really here.

“How? How -- why -- “ Blurr’s filters spat the last of the engex out, but his vents kept roaring, sucking air like he’d just run a marathon. The fans skipped, rattling on the hubs from more than poor maintenance. With his fans running at full power, the vent-hitches were far harder to ignore. They shook his entire body, rocking him back in forth in his seat, but he barely felt the skipping jolt him. Swindle was a stable, solid presence in his arms keeping him grounded even as his thoughts scattered in a thousand different directions. He hadn’t run anywhere but his thoughts raced.

Helm scraping metal-on-metal, he shook his head against Swindle’s shoulder. “No. No. I don’t care. I don’t even care. How or why doesn’t matter, I don’t care, it doesn’t matter, I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t **care!** ”

Swindle stayed stock still. Stiff and surprised, he didn’t dare move a finger. Blurr clung and sobbed incoherent sentences, fingers digging into the seams of his plating, and the merchant didn’t know what to do. What was the appropriate reaction to someone completely losing it over a glass of engex?

Eventually, a minor eternity later, seemed to decide on something. His arms slowly lifted to return the embrace, hands venturing across Blurr’s windshield in stark contrast to how Blurr’s arms attempted to crush him in their desperate hold. Gentle hands slid over Blurr’s chest, under tense arms, and around the bartender’s slender waist. Swindle tentatively shifted him a fraction to fit their armor together, but he looked ready to release the lanky mech the second Blurr recovered. Apprehension filled wide purple optics as he waited to be pushed away. 

It was less a hug than a test of boundaries. 

Blurr whined a high-pitched sound of a vocalizer retuning, beyond even static, and Swindle’s arms tightened. His hands smoothed up under the boosters on Blurr’s back, and, turning his head, he pressed a kiss to one blue helmfin. “It’s okay?” he said, almost questioning, expecting rejection. 

Blurr didn’t reject him. Blurr glued himself impossibly closer, armor mashing to armor and hands leaving dents. His fingertips dug through paint into the metal underneath. Unable to articulate why he was unraveling, he was even less able to explain why Swindle’s reaction made his spark quiver. The merchant clearly didn’t understand what he had or hadn’t done, but Swindle didn’t push him away. He was here, he was _here_ , here and present and patting a hand under Blurr’s boosters with zilch confidence that he was doing this comforting thing right. Swindle probably knew how to do it in theory but had never put theory into practice. 

He repeated reassurance like a formula, well-intentioned but anxious. “Shh. It’s okay. Calm down. It’s okay.” 

Jerking in his arms from fans and turbulent emotions, Blurr laughed. It came out mangled into a cry. “Y-you’re alive. You’re alive.”

“Well…yeah,” Swindle said in all awkwardness. 

“I just…” The helm on his shoulder turned, Blurr’s neck cables squeaking from the kinking twist forced into them, and pale blue optics overflowing something neither of them dared name even to themselves fastened on Swindle. Blurr never intended to look away again. “I thought you were dead.”

Swindle stared at him. The gears in his head turned. “Is this…is this a delayed breakdown? Have you been carrying this around the whole time?” Frowning, he shifted around to kneel in front of Blurr, settling in to stay for a while, and Blurr glommed onto him with both legs as well. “Holy bargain basements, Blurr,” the thus-captured merchant said a little helplessly. “Yeah, I’m alive. I’m here, I’m not dead, and you can trust me that I’m going to stay alive. I know you’ve got no reason to, but if you can’t trust me on anything else, trust that I’m not going to drive out there and get myself killed. You can take that promise to the bank. Okay? I’m not leaving you again.”

“No, you don’t under-understand,” Blurr said through distressed hiccups. “I-I thought you were **dead**.” 

Tipping his head to the side, Swindle pressed their forehelms together, optic to optic. His smile was apologetic and painfully, honestly tender. “I said I was sorry.”

“It’s not about whether you’re sorry! You -- y-you were dead, and -- and -- “ Blurr had all four limbs wrapped around him, but it wasn’t enough. He didn’t want to let _go_. It felt like tearing a weld apart to pry his fingers out of the metal they’d dented, and they wouldn’t cooperate once they were free. He didn’t have enough coordination to cup the side of Swindle’s helm in his hand. 

Swindle slipped one of his own hands loose and caught Blurr’s shaking hand to bring it to his cheek. “I wasn’t dead, not really, but frag, Blurr. I didn’t know you took it so hard. I mean, I…okay, I was gone. You, uh, you thought I was dead, and I guess you had no way to know otherwise, but I had no idea. You didn’t **say** anything.” Regret darkened Swindle’s optics until he switched them off. He turned his face into Blurr’s hand and pressed a kiss to the palm. “I’m so sorry.”

Sandwiched between hand and face, Blurr’s hand finally stilled. The rest of him shook in long, shuddering waves. Almost reverent, Blurr stroked his thumb under one dark optic. “You were dead, but now you’re not,” he whispered. “I just -- can’t. I don’t. You.” 

Later, maybe he’d be embarrassed. Perhaps he’d be able to look back on the last week and see how they’d been talking at one another without having the same conversation. They’d spoken to each other and only heard what they expected to hear. It had been tragic. Maybe later it’d be funny. Maybe they could laugh about it, later.

The ghost at his bar could be an alarming vision the two of them would have to investigate. He’d have to ask Wheeljack to examine his brain module for errors. The idea of a ghost haunting him might be laughable, a hallucination caused by poor recharge throwing memory file fragment up into active cerebral circuitry. Who knew? He’d think about later. The ghost didn’t matter. It was a part of the three-week absence Swindle would have to explain. Blurr was far more interested in where his missing, presumed-dead lover been and what exactly had happened.

But such things were an issue for any time but now. For now, the world narrowed to how Swindle’s lips felt against his own. Blurr shut off his optics to block out everything else. Nothing existed but warm contact, cool metal, and a small, surprised nonword said into his mouth. He parted his lips, swallowing to break the quick panting vents, and he nearly choked as they burst out anyway. He couldn’t control the erratic hitch of his fans jogging the two of them. Blurr’s forehelm scraped against Swindle’s, arms and legs wrapping the merchant more securely in his limpet-like hold, but their mouths kept bouncing as he jolted. Their lips missed, mouths rasping across each other. Blurr grumbled, neck twinging as he fought to stay in place.

Swindle’s hand left his, darting out to grab ahold of the side of his helm and hold him steady, and the merchant’s mouth opened to catch and hold his own, pushing forward. Forget meeting him halfway: Blurr made a little noise in the back of his throat as Swindle’s engine downshifting, armor thrumming as the smaller mech ground down to lower gear for more power, to take a heavier load. Tiny nips targeted Blurr’s lips, aggressively claiming territory, but Swindle soothed the sting right afterward by dragging his tongue over the marks.

It felt like a challenge, especially as wicked purple optics stared directly into surprised blue. Swindle’s tongue slid into his mouth, flirted with his own, and withdrew before Blurr could get more than a brief taste. It returned to trace over a particularly deep dent on his lower lip, dragging along his lower lip. It was a line drawn in small pangs of teeth and mischievous flickers of a quick tongue, and Swindle’s optics narrowed as he dared Blurr to chase him over it. 

Blurr was an ex-racer. He outran, outdrove, passed, and won. Chasing people over lines was for losers. He was a winner. He sped right over them. Zoom.

Suddenly it wasn’t enough to hold on. It wasn’t nearly enough. Blurr’s thighs clamped under Swindle’s arms, ankles crossed behind him and heels wedged on either side of his spare tire to keep him here, keep him real. His hands roamed urgently, touching everything. He had to touch everything. Everything at once, right away, now now now. The puffs of air bursting from his vents started to take on a moaning undertone, throaty, needy sounds coming out every time their mouths parted. Blurr’s engine shifted up to a higher gear, climbing to racing speed, and every piece of Swindle Blurr grabbed and groped fueled the heat seeping under his plating like hot oil. His hands kneaded shoulder-tires one second and stroked headlights the next, fingertips roughly tinking on the glass while Swindle grabbed Blurr’s helm in both hands to control him. The jolting shudder of loose fans sped up, running through both of them until they swayed together with every jerking rattle.

Swindle held him in place while kiss after kiss took his mouth, stinging teethmarks dented into Blurr’s lips and sparks flying as their teeth clashed, and it wasn’t enough, it would never be enough to make up for days, weeks apart. Swindle burrowed in, their mouths sliding, turning, pressing metal to metal and trading paint. Harsh, choppy vents traded back and forth, languid kisses of before turned to fierce urgency as they crushed their mouths together.

But Swindle drew back abuptly, pulling away, and Blurr’s boosters abruptly kicked on to whoosh air. It was pursuit on the last curve of the track, the chill fear that he wasn’t the fastest one in the race and could _lose_. His optics blazed online, panicked blue.

Brilliant purple looked into them from reassuringly close. Swindle swooped down for another kiss, but his hands pulled on Blurr’s helmfins, urging him to follow as he climbed to his feet. With some difficulty, considering how Blurr was wrapped around him, but Blurr refused to be left behind. The bartender whined, legs falling open to loose Swindle, but he leaned forward, mouth magnetized into the kiss. So long as it didn’t break, he was okay with this. So long as his hands could caress every part of Swindle they could reach, it was okay. Blurr didn’t care as long as they stayed together. He was off the chair and following Swindle around the table before he even realized they were moving. 

“Bed,” Swindle said against his mouth. Equal amounts urgent command and pleading filled his voice. His hands pulled impatiently on Blurr’s helm to draw his tall lover after him. “Bed now.”

All in favor, say, “ **Yes**.” Blurr scooped Swindle into his arms and strode hurriedly across the room.

Swindle grunted. It was a soft sound, one among a symphony of fans whirring, vents clicking, optic shutters blinking, but it struck a bad chord. Amidst an absolute perfect, fantasy-fulfillment reunion, it broke the suspension of reality. Despite the fingers scraping grooves in his helm, Blurr drew back just far enough to actually take in the mech he held.

Swindle had him by the helm, trying to bring him back into the kiss, but discomfort pinched his expressive face. The corners of his mouth were drawn taut, and a thin white stress-filament threaded across otherwise lust-darkened optics. Blurr held him cradled sidelong in his arms, clutched to his chest, but Swindle had curled into a strange defensive position instead of snuggling closer. Knee and elbow braced against Blurr’s windshield and shoulder respectively, and his shoulders were hunched inward. It created an odd, protective hollow around his chest.

A frozen explosion of horror detonated in Blurr’s tanks. “Your **chest** ,” he said in total dismay. 

Surprised by the stunned, horrified look suddenly splashed across Blurr’s face, Swindle stopped pulling on his helm. “Are you kidding me? Are you -- “ Surprised staring became an annoyed glare. “No. No, you are **not** doing this to me.” His fingers crimped the edges of Blurr’s helmfins, and he _yanked_ , bringing Blurr down to him, forehelm to forehelm. “ **Get** us to the bed **right now** ,” he snarled, breath hot on Blurr’s face, and the bartender’s mouth dropped open in disbelief.

“But you have a hole in your chest!”

“Yes, thank you very much for noticing. I’m very well aware of that fact, but it has no bearing on the fact that I want you right this minute!”

“But you -- “ Blurr swallowed, mouth dry as a barrage of memories of exactly that bombarded his cortex. Oh. Oh, yes. Please. He’d like that quite a lot, thank you.

But.

He shook his head to banish the irresponsible, reprehensible urge to just get to clanging. “You have a **hole** in your **chest** ,” Blurr repeated, and guilt knocked him upside the helm where lust had been a moment prior. His optics bleached pale, and his entire face went slack as he stared at the battered, field-patched ex-‘Con he held. “Primus. I didn’t…” He hadn’t done anything to help a mech in dire need of medical attention. Swindle hadn’t asked him for help, but he hadn’t even _offered_.

It was totally inadequate, but all he could think to say was, “I’m sorry. Swindle, Primus, I’m sorry I didn’t -- ”

“You’re forgiven, now frag me,” Swindle interrupted.

“It’s not that simple!”

“It’s exactly that simple! Look, I’ll spell it out: I want. To interface. You.” Swindle shook him by the helm for emphasis, scowling. “I haven’t even gotten to **touch** you since I got back, and if you think I’m gonna let a bunch of angst get between me and groping your speedy aft, then think again. You’re hot, I want you, I’m pretty sure you want me to, so unless any of that’s changed, let’s get to fragging!”

“You’re injured,” Blurr said, unable to stop protesting even as he shuffled the final steps to the bed as if compelled by Swindle’s logic. 

Satisfied by their progress, Swindle went back to more important things. Namely, kissing Blurr’s bolts loose. “It’s got a patch. Welding. I won’t die,” came out between kisses, and Swindle caught his open mouth in an extended liplock to stop the next protest before it escaped. He drew back just enough to say, “I’ll be fine! If I can drive with it, then I can clang with it, and you’re dead metal if you stop now just because you think I’m some civvie who can’t take a shot.”

An executioner’s blow wasn’t the same as a regular shot. “No, but -- “

“But?” Swindle echoed. A warning light tinged his optics. It made him look slightly unhinged.

Blurr paused to rethink his answer. Tread carefully, that gaze told him. He busied himself lowering Swindle to the bed, avoiding the glower trying to skewer him. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he admitted as he sat on the bed beside the merchant. 

“You’re hardly going to do worse to me than Starscream,” Swindle muttered. The mental image _that_ popped up made Blurr wince, and it was sufficient distraction for Swindle to take advantage of Blurr’s position. A sneaky hand slipped up under hip skirting. “Mmm, there’s the naughty touches I’ve been missing,” the sly conmech said through a grin. Greedy fingers slicked off rounded surfaces hidden behind paneling as Blurr jumped off the bed, goosed. Swindle made an exaggerated moue of disappointment. “I wasn’t done with that.” Fingers waggled suggestively. “Get those hips back down here.”

A broken feeling in Blurr’s chest intensified, the pieces rattling in time with his fans. It hurt. Pain compressed around his spark, but at the same time, the shards slicing into his spark opened up space where there hadn’t been any. He felt free. Able to breathe again. The short, panted vents shaking him lengthened gradually as he stared down at his lover, and everything whirling through his head settled, coming down to rest.

Setting his hand on the far side of Swindle so he could keep his weight off that ugly patch, Blurr leaned down. Swindle’s leer relaxed into something softer as he stopped, just out of reach for a kiss but in perfect range for them to study one another. There was no real reason for it, but it felt like seeing each other for the first time in weeks, really _seeing_. Blue and purple reflected off the scraped shutters around Blurr’s optics, the slight hint of Swindle’s salesmech smile. 

They both looked worn out and wanting. 

When Swindle cupped a hand behind Blurr’s neck, there was no resistance. Their lips met lightly this time. Quietly, metal whispering across metal, the loudest sounds the thrumming clicks of Blurr’s fans. Swindle sighed, body twisting in a slow squirm down the bed, and Blurr broke the kiss to brush his lips across cheek, nose, corner of the mouth, and the other cheek. Only then did he return to Swindle’s mouth, and it smiled against his lips. He found out why a second later.

Blurr’s boosters coughed reaction to clever fingers working into the vents on his thighs. “Aah.”

“Gotcha,” Swindle murmured. The hand on the back of Blurr’s neck slid away to join the wriggly fingers already playing. They laced into the open vents, hooking the slats to tug lightly. Pulling out, they ran along the lengths to splay fingers across blue thighs, thumbs massaging the vent frames. 

“Aaaaah.” Blurr’s optics flared, receiver rings bright behind the glass. His voice went higher on the inhale, the breathy moan trailing off into the deeper sound of his fans. “Hhhhhngh.”

Fingertips thrust in and out, then ran down Blurr’s thighs in a _tink-tnk-tunk_ rhythm. Swindle pet the slats, tweaking the hinges with care, and Blurr buried his face into the merchant’s neck as charge thrilled up both legs in jagged bolts. When Swindle abandoned the vents to walk his fingertips after the charge, it crackled across blue plating, exchanging with the merchant’s own charge in small zaps shocking along Blurr’s sensory network. Traceries of white lightening, spiderwebs of excited charge drawn by the hands pushing his thighs apart.

“You fight dirty,” Blurr said into Swindle’s throat, muffled.

 _’Decepticon,’_ Swindle didn’t say. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” Blurr replied, and left unspoken, _’Not if it keeps you alive.’_

After that, neither of them really had anything more to say.

**[* * * * *]**

_[ **A/N:** This was a fantastic gift and still fits into the IDW comics as we know so far. That makes me happy. Until the curtain rises next time, m’dears.]_


	7. Pt. 7

**Title:** Dark Horses  
 **Warning:** A relationship extrapolation from what Robots In Disguise (the comic) showed of Swindle and Blurr.   
**Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** IDW  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Blurr   
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Voter incentive ficlets for an Arkansas voter.* Thanks for voting!

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part 7**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Given their height difference, an outsider would probably find it odd that Swindle usually ended up as the big spoon. It was actually his small size that made it ideal. He could nestle in between Blurr’s back-mounted boosters, hooking his elbow over the lower one to slide his arm up between Blurr’s shoulder and helm. It cupped his hand under Blurr’s chin. It tucked down most nights, Blurr nuzzling into his palm when right at the edge of recharge. Swindle could feel him breathe all night long, vents revving in sleepy preparation for dream races but air blowing a steady in-and-out from mouth and nose. 

Sometimes, half-asleep, Swindle jolted back awake as a mouth closed softly around the nearest fingers. There wasn’t anything inherently sexual to it. When Blurr wanted to frag, he flirted with the bold _‘you, me, bed’_ bluntness of a mech who’d always been able to choose anyone he wanted from the inevitable crowd of eager volunteers. Playing with the tips of Swindle’s fingers while on the edge of sleep didn’t fit his approach to interfacing. He simply liked the feel of Swindle’s hand on his cheek, fingers curling into his mouth. It was an awareness, a way to reassure himself that someone was there, holding him. Lipping at Swindle’s fingers was a comfort move.

Swindle could feel the slight curve of a smile on Blurr’s face when the ex-racer fell into recharge still mouthing his fingers. It made him shake his head, amused and not understanding, but it didn’t bother him. He leaned his head against the back of Blurr’s neck and went to sleep.

It bothered Blurr that Swindle refused to spoon behind him, afterward. The merchant would sleep on the bed at his back, but he refused to cuddle. “Why?” the lanky mech demanded, concerned enough to be aggressive.

And Swindle was irritated enough by the demands to tell him the blunt truth: “It hurts.”

“Oh.” There wasn’t much to say to that.

So that night, Blurr waited until Swindle went into restless recharge. Then he turned over. 

How Swindle slept told Blurr how much pain he was in. The shorter mech curled inward, the arm Blurr was used to resting his head on crossed in a protective barrier over the poor repair job covering that huge chest wound. It made Blurr’s chest ache in sympathy, but it was the defensive posture that disturbed him the most. Swindle slept as if trying to make himself a smaller target even in the apartment, a supposedly safe place. 

But that was how Swindle slept all the time, not just when wounded. Awake, his personality stood out like a beacon, attracting attention even in the worst circumstances. Maybe that was why Blurr had come to like the fragger so much. Two huge personalities like theirs might have clashed, but Swindle’s confidence was a construct, a carefully-built sales sign that changed depending on what was on special. Blurr just plain knew he was the best. Swindle never tried to one-up him on it. If anything, he sold Blurr’s fame to other people, and the expected friction between them didn’t happen.

Blurr’s self-confidence said, “Look at me, for I’m great.”

Swindle’s self-confidence pointed at Blurr and said, “Look at him, isn’t he great?”

Even when holding center stage, Swindle used the attention turned on him to sell his product. It wasn’t about him, it was about his business, and Blurr had become his most precious possession at some point. Swindle loved showmanship, and he showed Blurr off like no one else.

At night, Swindle shut down. The Sales Show ended. All product went into safes, locked up in cases under guard, and Swindle slept like a hunted mech, knowing everyone wanted what he held. Wounded, in pain, he became a wary, twitchy mess once he stowed his sales personae for the night.

In the morning, he woke with one hand trapped against Blurr’s face, a possessive hand holding him in place. The bartender lay curled opposite him, their knees pressed together and helms almost touching, and watchful optics met his. For once, the merchandise had protected the merchant through the night.

 

**[* * * * *]**

 

_[ **A/N:** *If you don’t know what the voter incentive ficlets are, they’re me offering fic in return for people voting in the American Presidential primaries. If you’ve voted, you can **send me a Tumblr Ask** with your state and claim a ficlet or ask for the writing time to be applied toward an actual fic. Until the curtain rises next time, m’dears..]_


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